A/N: Thanks for the many reviews to the last chapter, I'm glad you still like it despite me doing horrible things.
I again feel as if I should put up a trigger warning for this chapter, although again I'm not sure what kind. There was a bomb. In a building. This chapter describes the aftermath.
If that rings too close to home for you I suggest to proceed with caution only.
Comments make my day.
Love
Spirit
Chapter 42: Darkness and Dust
"Is that it? It looks like Hell." - "That's about right."
Darkness enfolded him like a benevolent blanket.
It was an alien concept after the flash of light and the roar of thunder that had filled the wine shop when the machine infernale had wreaked its horrific damage, but now, moments, eternities later, everything was dark and silent.
Lying here, he thought, it would be easy to pretend, if only for a moment. It would be easy to slip away from the here and now, from the confinement, from reality itself. It was a simple and alluring promise of escape, and who would fault him for it? The scenario was nightmarish, and the weight of all that was above him threatened to crush him under it. Air was scarce and dusty, and in his ears there was still a remnant ringing of the earth-shattering sounds of before, despite all the quiet.
It would be easy to close his eyes again and drift, away from thought and confusion, pain and fear.
But Sebastien Enjolras was a better man than that. He faced reality and all that it brought with it.
Such as the fact that he was buried alive in darkness and dust.
Such as the things that had happened before.
Here in the darkness, it was easy enough to replay the scene that had just occurred, the meeting, and suddenly, Grantaire, who had spent the evening in a corner drinking and watching – calm by his own standards – had jumped up and all hell had broken loose.
Only in retrospective was he able to grasp what must have happened. And faced the consequences of it.
He was lying confined under layers and layers of rubble. Part of the wine shop must have come down as a result of the explosion (a barrel filled with powder instead of wine?) and wood and stone lay across and around him.
He was lucky, of sorts, for apparently the ruin had formed a sort of cave around him, so that the weight of the collapsed building above him was lying not on his body, but on the wood and stone around him, so that he was at least granted some freedom of breath; a small grace in the darkness of his confinement. For the moment, nothing moved and he seemed safe enough, but who knew how long this precarious position would prevail?
But of course, the fact that he was alive was much less contributed to luck than something else, and he knew it well.
He did not call out to the man who had turned into a dead weight on him, his head pillowed on his chest, the body sprawled over his limply.
He had not looked away as it had ended, had not spared himself the view of how the light had faded from these eyes he knew so well, had provided an anchor to the fading spirit with his own gaze until the very end.
Enjolras had seen men die, but never like this. In a flash of powder on a revolutionary barricade, yes; at a public execution; yes, but not in a moment of stillness, gazes locked, faces close enough that he had been able to catch that very last breath, that left the lungs almost as an afterthought when the eyes had already glazed over, telltale sign that the spirit had left the body. He had never been a last witness to the elusive process of fading.
He had held the gaze with everything that was in him, as if by sheer force of will he could beckon Grantaire to stay; as if by sheer determination he could will away death for another breath, another heartbeat, another minute.
A battle lost, as Grantaire had collapsed and the house with him, as if the spirit of the dying man, the drunkard who alone had seen what all of them had been blind to, as if this spirit had been the only thing that kept the walls of the Corinthe standing. As if in the wine lover's fading, the dwellings of the wine shop had lost their purpose as well and crashed down in their own, strange way of mourning.
The body was still warm, still soft, almost as if the heart was still beating in this strange embrace, but the ultimate sign of fealty had been given, the ultimate price paid, and there was no gesture that could outdo – or undo – what had transpired before.
And Enjolras found himself with a debt never to be repaid.
And a manifold of questions never to be answered.
Slowly, he raised his left hand – practically the only part of him that had not been pinned to the ground by some part of the shell of wood, stone and human flesh that had formed around him, and placed it gingerly in Grantaire's locks.
They were slightly damp, for reasons Enjolras could not explain, and he let his hand run through it in an absent-minded gesture, replaying event upon event, day upon day, conversation upon conversation, trying to find an explanation but finding none.
"I'm sorry", he finally confided to the specters of the darkness, not knowing what he was apologizing for. His disregard? The fact Grantaire was dead? He could not have explained it if pressed for an answer.
But nothing responded, and all that there was, was the silent accusation of the dead.
"I'm sorry", he repeated in a whisper, not trusting his voice, the most reliable of tools, right now. His fingers went from the locks to the neck, a tender gesture, almost an obeisance, as his fingers met not with skin but with wood, and he grasped the beam that had hit the neck, so suddenly ending the life of a man he had never understood.
His fingers clenched, almost involuntarily, against the wood that, sacrilegiously, after completing its gruesome task still confined the man who had committed the ultimate sacrifice, and all of a sudden, this seemed an unbearable situation.
He should not be weighed down by it, not now, not when his spirit should be flying, on the wings of the final, the ultimate dream, in the brightest of tombs that is reserved for those, who commit an offering of the highest, the purest nature. He should not be crushed, not be restrained, he should be free, free of oppression, free of fear, free of pain.
Enjolras shoved at the bar with all the force that he would allow, pushed against it, his whole body working against the weight of a house, uselessly, but he had never questioned possibilities, only found necessities, and so he was not cowered by impossibility.
He pushed, placing his whole weight behind the effort, not realizing the tears that were running down his cheeks, smearing the dirt and the dust. Darkness covered it all.
Finally, there was a movement, the slightest of movements, and he felt an idiotic surge of triumph, because as soon as the bar moved – Grantaire slumped against him in what could have been a thanking gesture, had he not been so bereft of life – other parts of the collapsed house came crushing down on him, and while he quickly managed to bring his arm out of harm's way, he felt the weight increasing as breathing became more difficult.
Grantaire jerked, as more stone, more wood hit him, cut skin and bones, while Enjolras, absurdly, was still mostly unscathed.
"I'm sorry", he whispered once more, voice unsteady, breathing labored against the weight of rubble.
But the fallen friend did not answer.
In the Trésor d'Alsace, half way across the city, the faint sound – like a roll of thunder – first seemed to herald an early thunderstorm that, called by the premature summer, would unleash its fury over their heads.
Éponine frowned slightly.
Living practically on the streets had made her proficient in judging the twists and turns of the weather, and there had been very few signs to herald that sort of storm coming upon them in the evening. The air had been hot, yes, but dry, bereft of the heavy, sticky humidity that was the usual preface to a thunderstorm, and until she had arrived at the tavern, the skies had been clear.
Yet, there was little other possible explanation for this, and so she shrugged aside her wonder – there was much too learn, every day, and weather did still change quickly, at times – to concentrate again on the task at hand.
And on her boredom, as time rolled by.
To her utter surprise, she was largely ignored here in the wine shop, as if the picture of a grisette, in a fading, but at least somewhat decent dress was nothing unusual.
The clientele of the Tresor d'Alsace was mixed, and while many of the visitors were very well dressed, there were some hints towards members of the poorer class. It seemed like one of the very few places in the city where people from different parts of society actually met, even though they did of course not talk.
Each of them occupied different tables.
It was an interesting mirror of the world as it had become during the last years, Éponine mused. The likes of her – or the likes of what she pretended to be – had been given a glimpse of what life was like for others, had been offered a shadow of an entry into another world, but the promise was hollow and empty. Even though now they occupied the same room, their differences were still pronounced, the good tables were still occupied by those with money, and given the conversations that happened, they might as well have been in different places.
Éponine wondered if that was not even worse than how it probably had been before. Oppression was something one could meet with rage and anger, but what she saw before her eyes in this place was more of a subtle poison.
Like the fact that an impoverished Marius might live in the same house as she under certain circumstances, but he would never consider her as anything remotely equal.
She wondered if this was part of what drove the students to what they did. Because for all the fact that she was a gamine and they were rich, almost every single one of them, she had sat at their table and eaten with them. She had talked and had received the same attention as others. She had been overlooked, but not shoved aside.
The difference to the Tresor was subtle, but all the more pronounced in its subtlety.
Eponine wondered if she should order a glass of wine – it would eat up much of her savings, but she somehow felt rebellion rising inside her – just to show them that she could, as well.
Even if the gesture in itself was futile. It would not be futile for herself.
But while she was still debating that thought, twisting and turning the water glass in her fingers, finally the door was opened to admit another young man, who did not exhibit any of the calm and poise that seemed to be intrinsic to many of those present.
His brown hair was plastered to his face, but by sweat, not by rain, as Éponine realized, and he was panting heavily.
He stopped for a moment in the entry and then quickly hurried towards the table where Kataczyna and her companions were sitting, speaking in rapid Polish to them.
Katya paled and raised a trembling hand towards her lips, and this got Éponine's attention immediately. Her gaze snapped towards the young woman, and a quick blink of Katya's blue eyes made it clear that she had realized the attention, despite her apparent distress.
Éponine felt worry grasp for her with invisible fingers. Katya Woroniecka had seemed to her a woman not easily frightened, this reaction, if it was genuine, did not bode well.
Almost involuntarily, she shivered.
"Uchowaj Boże!" Éponine did not understand the words, but the meaning was fairly clear. "An explosion at the Corinthe…?"
It took Éponine a moment – after the first, frightening impact of these words – to understand, that Katya had spoken French instead of Polish, and probably solely for her benefit at that.
The message was clear. And it did not take a university student to piece together the information.
Apart from her frightening experience yesterday, the assassins that had targeted the revolutionaries had been remarkably quiet during the last days. It was not clear if Madame de Cambout's distress was also to be attributed to them, or if anyone had just used a convenient excuse for his own agenda; but it was clear that the time of quiet was definitely over.
And if an explosion had occurred at the Corinthe, this promised a whole gallery of unpleasant things.
Éponine felt a moment of panic as she saw the faces pass before her eyes… Marius, with whom she was angry, and who was not what she had thought he was – but old reflexes died hard and a fire does not die at a small gust of water. Good-natured Courfeyrac, who had taken her for her deeds and person only, apparently not even remarking her ragged state as they worked hand in hand. Joly, whose fidgeting had stopped the moment he was faced with the reality of her hurt and distress, and who had helped her without ever even asking how and why. And Enjolras, this strange, ununderstandable man of glorious words and quiet musings, who was hard as iron and deep as a well, and who had shown her a door nobody else had dared to point out to her.
And thus, Éponine realized that nothing of her association with the Friends of the ABC was make-believe any more.
She decided in an instant.
Montparnasse and his stupid errand be hanged. She would sort out the matter of the favor later. This was more important.
She gave a quick nod to Katya – more to tell her that she had understood – and slammed the money for her drink onto the table before she got up and stormed into the Paris night, northwards, to cross the Seine and reach the wine-shop to find out what had transpired.
Two streets away, it was already clear that whatever had happened at the wine shop was no small trifle. Throughout the quarter, the traffic had still been fairly busy, given the late hour, but one could have attributed that to the summer time and the warm weather, if one was looking for an explanation.
The closer she came to the Corinthe, though, the thicker the crowds became, and a telltale red glow in the sky heralded the place of the incident to those who did not exactly know where the wine shop was located.
Corinthe, or something close to it, was burning.
Two streets away, it was becoming difficult to push through the narrow alleys and the smell of a fire was becoming more intense with every step.
Despite the people around her, Éponine broke into a run and began to push through the crowds with more ruthlessness than before, took a turn and then another, and finally, she stepped onto Rue de Chanvevrie and had her first glimpse of the disaster that had occurred.
A huge mass of people had assembled around the place that had been once occupied by the wine-shop Corinthe, a three-story crooked house imbedded into a whole line of similar buildings. Yet, the place where Corinthe had been was now a gaping wound. Part of the front side of the building had collapsed from the roof to the bottom, and what remained of the house was torn open, like a grotesque children's doll house allowing inside into the remaining rooms.
Parts of the roof were still hanging over the rubble that had once been the rest of the house, swaying precariously under its own weight and the slight wind that had chosen an inconvenient time to freshen up. Éponine made a face. She had seen a number of unstable buildings in her time, and a growing dread in her stomach made her think that this precarious installment would not last long.
What had once been walls and roof was now collapsed in a huge pile in front of the Corinthe, wood and stone mixed to a gruesome picture. Éponine was only able to see the very top of it – which in its highest places covered the complete ground floor of the wine shop – for all the heads of the spectators that had assembled at this unusual display of a grand catastrophe.
The street was abuzz with cries, whispers and rapid talking, but Éponine did not care. Abandoning all pretenses she pushed around the crowds almost violently to reach the center of the attention, and as usual, curiosity cowered in the face of pure, sheer determination.
Soon, she found herself in the first row of spectators, and so finally she was granted a full view of the catastrophe.
What was remaining of the ground floor of the Corinthe and part of the upper floor were burning, and the flames threatened to find their way to the neighboring building as well. Fire had caught quickly on the wooden walls of the wine shop and was slowly eating its way up to the roof.
A small circle of onlookers had formed where several groups of the brigade de sapeurs-pompiers were trying to deal with the fire, a full set of four pump wagons were operated by eight men each, while their captains held the hoses, standing carefully on the rubble to get close enough to the fire for the water to reach it. Smoke billowed where water met fire, and battle luck seemed to go to and fro between flames and man.
The firefighters, though, at least, had been quick in reaching the Corinthe – while none of the other officials had arrived yet, that was a small grace to be cherished. Éponine was no expert on the matter, but it seemed as if they stood at least a chance of saving the neighboring houses.
Slowly, almost dreading the sight, she turned over to the collapsed part of the building and its surroundings. The air was ripe with dust and smoke, particles in the air creating an artificial fog that hid the scenery behind something akin to a veil. It softened the picture, but not much.
Like ants, people were crawling over the piles that had once been the wine-shop, digging through it, calling out names that sometimes were answered, sometimes were not. People where led away from the rubble, some on their own feet, some not, and on the far end, a bigger group of survivors had assembled, some standing, some lying, some something in-between.
The air was ripe with cries, screams and many, many voices of the onlookers, with the bell of Saint Honoré ringing loudly to herald the danger of a fire, the cracking of the flames and the hissing when they were met with water. The symphony of a catastrophe.
Éponine swallowed hard and only barely refrained from pressing both her hands to her mouth. Yet, she had come here for a reason, and so she fought down her shock and forced herself to look for details among the chaos, to find familiar faces and decide what to do.
The rubble was unsteady, and every now and then, some of it toppled on its own accord, once only narrowly missing a young man who jumped aside just in time. He dropped down into the remnants of the house, though, and crawled out of the hole he had accidently found only with difficulty and the help of a comrade of his, his trousers torn and tattered when he reemerged.
Just off the pile, on the streets, a young man Éponine did not know held the lifeless body of a grisette in his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth as tears ran freely over his face, tracing little rivers into the dust that covered his cheeks.
The burly shape of John Sellers sat next to him, a helpless hand on his shoulder, an attempt at a source of comfort without a single word.
Farther away, half hidden by the highest pile of rubble, Éponine saw her little brother, scampering over the pile as he led the way for two other shapes that proceeded more gingerly. After a moment, she recognized Courfeyrac, who was more being dragged than walking on his own accord, leaning heavily on the shoulder of a young man with dark skin, whose expensive clothing was full of dust, dirt and blood. Éponine suspected that the blood was not, or not solely his, given the fact that he moved fairly freely, and her little brother seemed to be relatively unscathed as well.
She breathed a quiet sign of relief and moved closer to the group of students, who moved apart at the arrival of the three at a shout from Gavroche, giving Éponine a clearer view on what happened.
Combeferre and Joly worked hand in hand. Apart from the fact that both of them seemed covered head to toe in dust and blood, they seemed to have escaped the catastrophe fairly well, and Joly's ever present satchel was open, spilling instruments and glasswork filled with medicine. A number of wounded lay around them, some already bandaged, some not, and two shapes that Éponine did not know lying motionlessly on the ground.
Both medical students were working together on a man that Éponine dimly recognized as Ramon Deleric – but only because she saw the pale frame of Franc Goudin next to him, face creased in worry, lips silently moving in what was an adjuration, or a prayer. Deleric himself was barely recognizable, his face completely covered in blood, and someone had removed his jacket to reveal a gruesome wound in his chest that both Joly and Combeferre were working on.
Éponine could not see Combeferre's face, but Joly was in deep concentration, oblivious to the world around him as he worked, eyes never once leaving the man whose life he was fighting for.
Courfeyrac was placed close to these two, and the man that had brought him down from the collapsed building, began to remove his jacket as well. Courfeyrac stifled a cry as an involuntary movement apparently hurt his shoulder, and Gavroche went to assist.
His jacket removed, Éponine realized that Courfeyrac's shoulder was hanging at an odd angle. She had seen this before, and the young man with the dark skin placed a rolled handkerchief between Courfeyracs teeth and set to work.
Despite the cloth, the scream was audible even over the noise that surrounded the Corinthe, as Courfeyrac's shoulder was roughly torn and the arm twisted, and Éponine turned her gaze to them again, only to find the man sagged down, breathing heavily, tears on his cheeks, but his posture one of relief none the less.
The physician gave Courfeyrac's good shoulder a clap and went over to where some others had collected what cloth there had been found in the rubble. He chose a tattered piece of tablecloth and fashioned it into a sling not unlike the one Éponine had worn a few days and a lifetime ago to fasten Courfeyrac's arm to avoid his shoulder to move too strongly.
The almost-healed wound on Éponine's shoulder gave a sympathetic twitch.
There was no sign of either Marius or Enjolras.
"Where's Maurice?"
The words were spoken softly, under breath almost, and Éponine, following old reflexes, did not turn around but just moved her head slightly to be able to gaze behind her. Katya's bright colors were impossible to miss, and so was the deathly pallor of her face.
Her mother and their associates from the Tresor were standing next to her, and here was the source of the cautious question. Éponine remembered Enjolras' comment on her mother not approving of Feuilly, and she had learned the Courfeyrac scheme in the same time.
"Go to him", she whispered, hoping, that Katya would understand the half-sung song. She did not want to bring trouble to her, and so she was careful not to alert her mother by any long exchange between them. "I'll find out."
And moved, with quick steps, towards the best source of information – her brother.
Gavroche got up as he saw her, his eyes lighting up as he rushed towards her.
"Ponine", he called, and for once he did not stop in front of her, did not keep his distance but gave her a quick, ferocious hug that spoke volumes of how much the events had shaken him.
He retreated soon enough, but she knew him well, and there was no merry gleam in his eyes for once. Death and chaos had not left him unaffected.
"What happened?" she asked, and Gavroche turned to business with a relief that made it clear to her he had been waiting exactly for this.
"Good question. There was an infernal machine in the Corinthe. I'm not quite sure what happened exactly, because I haven't seen it, but all I remember is Grantaire jumping up and shouting like mad. Then there was chaos, and then a big bang and basically the house came down. I got lucky, was in the back part that didn't really collapse – although I guess the toppling candles and whatever happened in the kitchen lit that fire – but others not so much so. It's all chaos, however. There's still a fair amount of people down there."
Éponine swallowed hard. From the corner of her eye, she saw Katya gingerly taking place next to Courfeyrac, who greeted her with a wan smile and a pun, that seemed to cheer her up slightly and earned him a friendly shove against his good shoulder. He winced none the less as the movement travelled through his own body, and Katya retreated slightly, remorseful.
"What about Marius?" she asked, and Gavroche shook his head.
"Wasn't there", he informed her. "Enjolras sent him to Picpus with Bossuet looking for Jehan." He made a wry face. "The one time L'Aigle de Meaux gets lucky. Rotten story. Anyways, seems as if Jehan found the Picpus dead and was there with the rest of the group."
Éponine turned around quickly, skimming the crowd for well-known faces.
"How many were there in the end?"
"Well… for us all except those three and you. For Picpus there was Stéphane and Marc, Gauvain and Paul. Paul's dead. Barriere and Saint Antoine were there almost in full numbers. Some from Saint Antoine had their lady friends with them – not a good idea if you ask me." His head quickly jotted towards where John Sellers was trying his best to console one of his friends, whose desperate cries were easily to be remarked even over the overall noise. "For Picpus there was only Laurent – the guy you see over there", he pointed to the young man who had tended to Courfeyrac and was now taking care of the next wounded, "and Vincent. They were sitting far back, they both came out okay. You've seen Ramon", he pointed towards where Combeferre and Joly were still fighting for the life of the student, "that's not looking good at all. Don't know how many comrades these two brought, so we don't really know how many to look for."
Éponine's gaze moved over the rubble, shaking her head. She had never before seen this amount of destruction, and judging from the shocked conversations around her she was not the only one. She had heard of infernal machines – devices that allowed to wreak immense destructions. In several shapes and forms they had been assembled, of guns and powder and nails and whatever else struck an assassin's fancy – but she had never seen one in working, let alone perceived its result.
She had seen old buildings, torn down buildings, partly collapsed buildings, but nothing could compare to this seemingly arbitrary destruction of the Corinthe, of the disquieting image of half a house she once knew, torn open like a toy, taking so many lives with it.
"How many are missing?" Éponine asked, her voice slightly rough. Gavroche shrugged.
"Dunno exactly because we don't know exactly how many have been there. Some from Saint Antoine and the Barriere. A few students, I guess. Mère Houcheloup herself. On our side Grantaire, Enjolras and Feuilly."
Éponine saw Katya flinch slightly at that, but she held her composure and continued to talk quietly to Courfeyrac. Out of the corner of her eye, Éponine could see the calming hand that Courfeyrac had placed upon Katya's wrist in a futile gesture.
She turned back to her brother.
"Are you all right?"
Gavroche made a dismissive gesture.
"Bah", he said. "I'm always alright."
Éponine shook her head, knowing that sort of response only too well.
"I know", she responded. "But are you all right?".
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.
"Won't change much, will it?" he answered, slightly more thoughtful than before. "So I'm all right for lack of options."
Éponine pondered this for a moment, and then nodded. She understood very well what he meant. A life such as the one both of them led did not allow for much reflection or sensitivity.
They were governed by necessity, more than anything else.
"I'm here. You know that."
That got his attention, and Éponine found herself under intensive scrutiny by her little brother, frowning in the way that slightly crinkled his nose. It gave him an oddly humorous look, but Éponine was not fooled, knowing that the gesture betrayed that something rather deep was going on behind her little brother's forehead.
"That's new", he finally said, and Éponine felt vexation creeping up to her, but she had to admit that in a part he was right. Gavroche had drifted apart from them. From all of them. And it was true, that somehow in the last days this dynamics had been reversed without her even noticing it. "That's good", her brother continued, seeing her face and tried to conjure up one of his careless smiles. It did not fully work, but she appreciated the effort.
"Yes", she answered. "I guess it is."
Gavroche smiled more broadly and nodded.
"Well", he said. "So I'm off to see who else is up there."
Without waiting for her answer, he scampered off towards the precarious pile of rubble that was still hiding a number of their fallen friends.
Éponine, at her turn, went to take a seat next to Courfeyrac and Katya. A quick gaze told her, that Katya's mother was hovering in the first row of spectators, but had not joined them yet and so she dared to speak openly, if softly.
"Gavroche says he was in the wine shop when it crumbled", she explained. "I'm sorry."
"I know already." Katya's voice was calm, and her eyes on Courfeyrac, even though the effort not to run towards the pile of rubble to start searching herself was clearly visible to Éponine. The young polish emigree was practically vibrating with tension, her face and lips deathly pale. "Courfeyrac told me."
"Are you sure you want to keep up the pretense under the circumstances?" Courfeyrac's voice had a careful ring to it, and it was rough, if from pain, shouting or exhaustion Éponine did not know. "I'd understand if you didn't."
Katya shook her head softly.
"Now more than ever, Barthélemy", Katya responded softly. "I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by this."
Courfeyrac hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded.
"However you want it", he answered, attempting a cocky smile that did not sit well with his troubled eyes. "I'm game."
Katya smiled, blinking slightly too quickly, and for a moment she lost the battle and looked towards the rubble, blue eyes tortured and painful.
"Thank you", she whispered distractedly, and the fingers of her right unconsciously went to the little pocket at her wrist that contained a small fan. The gesture was absent-minded, but all the more telling.
It was in this moment that Éponine heard a loud curse from a few meters away, where the majority of the group were sitting; and surprisingly, the angry exclamation was done in the voice of Combeferre.
She did not need to look up to know that Ramon Deleric had just died.