A/N: I'm so sorry I took so long. I tremendously busy at the moment. I try to be better :-(

Thanks to all who read, reviewed, favved and put me on their alert list, and to judybear who corrected it.

As always, comments make my day

Chapter 44: The price of blood

"The blood is already on my hands. Right or wrong, .. I must follow the path .. to its end."

"Get him down there."

Words were absolutely inaccurate to convey the manifold of sentiments that were coursing through Javert – from sheer horror, passing annoyance towards good and solid anger – and so he resorted to commands of the curtest nature and did not even try.

However, his subordinates – the local sergeant de ville, his aide and two brigades of the National guard – were used to that sort of tone and if they minded, they certainly did not complain.

Not that complaining would have been a good idea. He was not in the best of moods.

Arriving home from work after dark – which already was quite an accomplishment in itself given the fact that it was summer and days were long – he had not waited long to go to sleep, in the hope that nightly oblivion would sort out the disturbing thoughts and half-memories that his visit with the gypsies had called forth.

He had been wrong.

However, the parade of half-remembered memories and imagined specters had not lasted long, and he had been rudely torn from the dreams by frantic rattling against his apartment door.

This was not an unusual occurrence. Theoretically, an Inspector's office did not know the luxury of a work-day's end as a common worker's would, and disruptions like these had happened before. They had become less frequent with his employment under direct municipal authority – and his official room in the Préfécture that came with it – but emergencies still brought both townsfolk and local officials to his door.

Old habits dying hard Javert found back to wakefulness easily and took the time to don at least decent attire before he let in the visitor; a messenger in the service of the Sergeant de Les Halles.

What he had told him had brought him now here, into the Rue de la Chanvevrie, to the inferno both material and literal in front of his eyes.

The sappeur-pompiers seemed to have the raging flames well in hand from what Javert's limited experience told him, but on all other accords the situation seemed to be as out of sorts as humanly possible.

In front of the collapsed wine-shop, a significant crowd of spectators had assembled, and they were currently all listening to the boy Enjolras speak. He stood on the collapsed part of the house as if it were a pedestal and looked as if he had barely escaped the catastrophe himself.

He cut a striking figure there, with his golden looks and angry gestures, and Javert recognized danger when he saw it. It was time to interrupt the spectacle before the crowd caught fire.

Enjolras, however, obviously had no intention to give him the satisfaction of dragging him from his improvised podium. As he saw the two guards approaching, he stepped down on his own accord, and quickly at that, reaching the ground before the guards even had a chance to get close to him.

His friends – Javert recognized a few of them, and he had assembled quite a fine collection of them in this place of misery – seemed for a moment to consider blocking the path to their leader, but Enjolras – for once in his life showing a minimum amount of sense – declined their help.

He likewise declined with a proud, angry gesture to be led towards Javert and instead made the way himself, a dangerous spectacle of presumption and determination.

"Inspector." His voice carried a cold courtesy as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What can we do for you?"

His approach attracted a certain interest, and a number of his supporters started massing around them, much the same as the Guard surrounded Javert, and presumably for the same reasons.

The situation was tense indeed.

And Javert did not take Enjolras' bait.

"I have come to investigate on the crimes that have obviously been committed in this place", he responded neutrally, for truth was on his side.

Enjolras raised a brow.

"And which might that be?" he asked, and while the words themselves seemed to indicate some measure of sarcasm, he managed to keep his voice completely free of that sentiment.

"Article 309", Javert began citing the code penal, the scripture that was closer to him than the bible had ever been. This part of the conversation was the easy one. People had been hurt by whatever deeds had been done here, and article 309 dealt with the infliction of bodily harm. "Because we can safely assume that people have been hurt by whoever did this." His gaze strayed involuntarily to the half-collapsed building. "And article 310. Given the overall setup, it should be safe to assume deliberate intent."

He let his gaze wander around, over the students standing next to Enjolras, the bodies on the floor.

"Article 295 and 296, as there have been deaths." The paragraphs dealing with homicide and murder. "Article 434 and 437 for the destruction of property and the danger inflicted to this building and the city of Paris."

He nodded towards the shell that had once been the Corinthe and received a quick nod from Enjolras, whose lips were pressed together so strongly they appeared almost white. Javert remembered that the boy was a student of the law. Which meant that he had understood – and possibly followed – what he had said. And that he was knowledgeable enough to be stubborn.

Again, Javert found himself in the unpleasant situation, that the execution of his office brought him in the vicinity of the dealings of the student rebels. They were not much better, criminals in their own right, and more likely than not, they had brought this attack upon their own heads.

This, however, was nothing that Javert could prove or sufficiently conclude at the moment. Quite to the contrary of the burning Corinthe and the dead and wounded on the streets which were in fact quite real.

Again, the law defied itself.

It was ridiculous.

"Whether a violation of article 291 has occurred as well, remains obviously to be seen and checked."

Predictably, Enjolras snorted in disgust, but Javert continued. He knew that the paragraph that forbid the regular assembly of more than twenty people without explicit government approval, was one of the most hated among the more rebellious souls of the city. It was, of course, a paragraph that was a nuisance to some extent – starting with the fact that the catholic church herself had needed to apply for being granted their regular services (of course this had been quickly approved) – but it was more than necessary, as the past and present had constantly proven.

"Judging by the amount of people around here, I think it is safe to assume that your assembly comprised more than twenty individuals, did it not?"

Enjolras' icy eyes narrowed slightly. Javert was certain that the law student knew what he was aiming at. The line his little bunch of friends had been toeing was deceptively small.

"And you were discussing… politics, I assume? Which would be indeed a violation of article 291. And I do not even take into account your little spectacle here, which brings you into close vicinity of article 209 and 210, if I remember correctly." He took a moment before he gave the specter ghosting through these particular paragraphs a verbal shape. "Rebellion."

"Articles 209 and 210 deal with violent outbursts against government officials, Inspector", Enjolras reminded him in a deceptively calm voice. "And article 291, if I remember correctly", he copied Javert's diction and tone, "deals with repetitive assemblies, not with a single gathering."

"The government officials are representatives of the public order. Attack one and you attack the other. That's common interpretation of these laws in courts as you well know."

Enjolras folded his arms in front of his chest.

"Indeed", he gave back coolly.

"And when it comes to gatherings, I have it on good authority that a similar gathering took place in the Café Musain two days ago. Two gatherings. I would call this repetitive."

"The first assembly was neither in spirit nor in participants, nor in invitees identical to this one, inspector. It is common practice amongst friends to meet."

Javert could not help raising a brow and finishing his thought in his own spirit.

"And conspire?"

Enjolras shook his head in exasperation.

"Inspector. Are you seriously discussing semantics with me in the face of this?" His hand went out in a dramatic gesture towards the collapsed house.

Javert frowned for a moment. It was true that the boy Enjolras was as much a victim as he was close to becoming a criminal, and that left him with a particularly unpleasant situation to deal with.

Javert did not like shades of grey. He was used to a world in checkers, black and white neatly ordered and separated, the lawful and good on the one, the wicked and criminal on the other side. It had always been like that, from his childhood spent in prison as the offspring of one of the inmates, through his apprenticeship, to the time where the tides had turned for him and the former spawn of one of the watched became a watcher.

Since then he had been part of the world that he had watched in curiosity when he was a child, and he had found the world to be an image of what he had understood his childhood prison world to be.

The predators and the protectors.

The wicked and the victims.

That was all.

But here before him was what must not be. Shades of grey surrounded the gold-and-blue that was Enjolras, and Javert took refuge in very old truths.

"There is no hierarchy in wickedness", he said, calmly. "There is only crime. And justice."

"I beg your pardon?" Still Enjolras was relatively calm, but his fingers clenched around his arms, knuckles on the pale skin turning white with strain. "Inspector", and there was much insolence and disdain in the way he articulated the title. "I am under no illusions when it comes to the image that you have of my friends and me. But let us, for the moment, pretend that we are both servants of the truth. Let us for a moment pretend that we are only evaluating what we see. Tell me, Inspector. What does the situation look like then? Which are the crimes that we can see and prove as we stand here, you and I?"

Javert did not like being questioned. He straightened purposefully, almost seeing eye-to-eye with the tall grown student.

"It looks as if you are moving deceptively close to insubordination to an Officer of the Crown, Monsieur", he gave back; having no intention to be cowered by the rhetoric of a well-taught son of wealthy parents. "Which, as I would like to remind you, is a criminal offense in itself."

"This is ridiculous", Enjolras snapped, and now he was indeed losing his temper. Red specks were appearing on his pallid cheeks, smudged with dirt, but still aristocratic in appearance. His nostrils were flaring in anger, and there was something in his demeanor that was menacing without a hand raised or weapon drawn. "It is us who were attacked, and we are the victims in this place. This is something you should not forget, Inspector. Someone literally collapsed the roof over our heads, and we may well… may well count ourselves supremely lucky that we did not all die in this." He took a deep breath, apparently trying to gain momentum. "Do not try to turn this around, do not dare to desecrate what has happened here. Some of us have paid the highest price imaginable for a mere gathering at a wine shop." For a moment, something in his eyes flickered, and his voice continued, a trifle more softly, but no less ripe with intensity. "We have lost friends today, Inspector. They died for us. And they died because the government, because the likes of you did not protect them. Do not dare to belittle their sacrifice with words of spite."

His gaze was burning, brightest of flames, ablaze with anger and fury and… hurt. The thought was so absurd that it made Javert pause, but there was something raw in the voice of the student that was purely and utterly unexpected.

Javert stared back and tried to read the thoughts of the man before him, but apart from this quick and sudden glimpse, Enjolras remained a mystery and did not reveal any more about himself.

For a moment, Javert wondered what had truly happened inside the wine shop when its walls fell.

And in one thing, Enjolras was right. Something –someone – was wreaking havoc in his city. The hand of justice belonged to the police and the courts, to them alone, and what had happened during the last days – as justified as it might seem in the first glance – was as wrong as a murder of greed, and infinitely more presumptuous.

Javert would not have it. And so, the path before his eyes was clear again.

"You will give your observances to my subordinates", he began in a cool voice, completely at odds with the heated statement of the young man before him. "You will leave a point of contact and your whereabouts during the next days with them to allow further questioning. And then you will leave this place."

For a brief, almost unconscious moments, he saw Enjolras' eyes flicker back to the corpses that were lying on the floor as if asleep, and there was some reluctance in his manner that Javert could not accept.

"The bodies will be brought to the institute of legal medicine to be examined. This shall be none of your concern."

Enjolras shook his head violently.

"I am not…", he began, but one of his comrades, still cowering next to a man wrapping a bandage around a bleeding cut on his leg, intercepted his words.

"He's right, Enjolras", he answered, and to Javert's surprise this had the man at least shut up, until his apparent friend finished tying the bandage and stood up. The Inspector took only a moment to connect the face to a name.

Jean Combeferre, student of medical and polytechnical sciences, employee at the university and too good a writer for a certain infamous newspaper for his own good.

And apparently a person that Enjolras listened to, as Javert realized with some interest.

"This is the legal medicine's call, after an event such as this. Maybe it will help determine what exactly that machine infernale was made of, that made the Corinthe collapse." He stepped up to Enjolras, his demeanor almost beseeching. "You can trust Orfila on this", he continued, more softly. "He will be… respectful."

For a moment, Enjolras held his gaze, and Javert watched the muscles in his jaw work as if great forces were warring inside him and tearing him hither and thither. His eyes were blinking, a bit too slowly, and his breathing was flat. His stillness was intense.

But in the end, he nodded. And as he turned around on his heel to walk towards the sergeant de ville, he did not even dignify Javert with a good-bye.

Courfeyrac stared at their fallen friend in horror and for the first time in a very, very long while felt he indeed was out of words to say.

Out of things to do.

He had felt the pain in Enjolras' every word and shared it measure for measure, the horror of the day finding its ultimate conclusion.

He wished he could be calm like Combeferre, who, as much as he had been unsettled during the day, at least seemed to find some solace in patching up the bigger and smaller hurts of their friends.

He envied Joly's open tears, the relief he found in just curling up somewhere on the floor, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

He wished he could rage like Bahorel, who was prowling somewhere in the vicinities of the Corinthe rabble, throwing around whatever items he could find and kicking and punching what would not move, envied the catharsis that there was in an explosion of anger.

To him, none of these paths were open.

In the midst of chaos, he did not feel as if he were at liberty to give in to this pain; much as Combeferre and Joly were not allowed to forget their medical training in the face of injury.

With the ultimate certainty that he exhibited in most of his dealings with other people he knew that he could, at this moment, not give in to the full extent of shock and grief. Someone had to keep a level head, and with Enjolras hurting as he was, Joly and Combeferre otherwise occupied, Bahorel giving in to rage and Feuilly hurt and in need of care, it seemed that this role fell to him.

In addition, he reminded himself, there was the matter of Feuilly to consider.

His friend was trying his best to be as unobtrusive as possible, but the pallor and the way he screwed together his eyes told him that it was time to take Combeferre's advice and bring him to a calmer place where he could rest and sleep.

However they should be able to bring a coach through the crowds around them.

Courfeyrac sighed and ran his good hand through his locks.

Time to think. Although a solution, as he had to admit, was not exactly forthcoming.

"You need a safe house", a calm voice interrupted his thoughts, closer than he thought the crowd would have been, but as he turned around, he realized that it was not a common spectator who had dare approach him in his reverie.

A woman, young still, her skin as dark as thin coffee, black eyes surrounded by long lashes, and the unconscious beauty and grace of a cat.

She wore a workingwoman's dress, a simple grey with a white collar, and a cloth around her shoulders against a cold that, in the midst of Paris summer, was probably rather imaginary.

Her hair was carefully wound in a braid at the nape of her neck, and Courfeyrac intimately knew the difficulties she would have had in the morning to force the unruly curls into this more Parisian hairdress.

Her name was Adelaide. She was born in the Caribbean, in Sainte Domingue, and the twists and turns of fate had ended her up here, in the country of Sainte Domingue's former captors, where she made a living as a seamstress.

And she and Courfeyrac shared history of their own kind.

Which, on the whole, had ended in an unpleasant manner. He had found out the hard way that Adelaide was not fond of the concept of sharing.

Yet her face was carefully schooled into neutrality as she stepped up to him and gave a quick look around. There was a stillness in the way she was watching.

"The police, all that's happened here, the sickness of your friend. You need a safe house", she reiterated, in a tone, that rather suggested a conversation about the weather. Given the fact, that their last conversation had included a vase that had shattered against a door he had just barely managed to close behind him, he considered this slightly eerie.

However, the day had seen odder and more disturbing occurrences, and Courfeyrac on the whole could not afford to be choosy.

With a frown, he turned towards her, heard Katya rise next to him, obviously wanting her share of the conversation.

"Where's Elodie?" he asked, a question, that only in the first moment seemed out of sorts, but a wave of Adelaide's hand directed his gaze towards where Bahorel had been raging just moments before. And indeed, there he saw the ginger head of Elodie Belancon, the girl almost tiny in front of the cowering shape of Bahorel, but she was not easily cowered. He could not hear what she was saying, but her hair was bobbing with vehemence, and her hands were flailing through the air in a most spirited manner, and his friend seemed to listen, at least, which was on the whole something to be appreciated.

"Ah", Courfeyrac managed, and nodded dumbly. "I see. That's good I guess."

Not a good moment to lose his voice, he wondered a little idly, but he had been given no choice in the matter.

Adelaide took a deep breath and fully turned to look at him, her eyes pitch black in the semi-darkness, and began to speak, her voice gruff and forbidding.

"You should best listen, because I will say this only once. It was Elodie's idea. Not mine. But I agree with her that there is a time for grudges, and there is a time for action. If you stay here any longer, things will get ugly. You'd best try and restrain the more hotheaded bunch of your friends. And then we can bring a few of you into our apartment, at least those who can't walk far. It's not big as you know, but it is right there. And Louise's out." Her hand made a gesture towards the other side of the street, as if he did not know how close she lived. "I don't like it but I agree we should do it."

As if both Bahorel and himself had not met the two seamstresses due to the simple fact that they were living directly next door to one of their familiar haunts.

"That's… an incredibly generous offer." Obviously Katya sensed the undertones of the conversation, and equally obviously she tried to alleviate the situation by sheer display of a sunny temperament.

Courfeyrac saw the strain it cost her, but he appreciated it all the more. She was an interesting woman. Taken, of course, but still interesting.

Katya stretched out her hand towards Adelaide in a spontaneous and friendly gesture.

"A friend in need is a friend indeed, as the English say", she said lightly. "Kataczyna Woroniecka. And you cannot begin to imagine how grateful I am."

Adelaide returned the gesture, although everything in her eyes and posture told him she'd rather not.

"Don't mention it", she said coolly. "It is something any decent human being would do."

Feuilly had been the epitome of bravery during the slow, unsteady walk across the street into the apartment that Adelaide and Elodie shared with a third girl called Louise, but he could not suppress a groan of relief as he finally came to rest on Louise's bed, and the pallor took a long while to even contemplate leaving his cheeks.

Katya watched him in worry. At least, he had not vomited again, although she suspected that this was rather due to lack of stomach content than due to lack of trying.

It had been a hard thing, finally leaving the scene of the catastrophe, as if turning away from it would finally give reality to all those things that seemed unbelievable in a normal world, but the police inspector had been unambiguous, and after a moment's discussion even Bahorel and Enjolras seemed unwilling to put up the fight.

They had scattered over the city with the promise of contacting each other in the morning – all of them were much too shaken for clearer arrangements than that – and what remained of the Amis of the ABC divided into two groups.

Feuilly, who could barely be moved, was brought to Elodie's and Adelaide's apartment on Rue de la Chanvevrie, and since Katya was at loath to leave his side, Courfeyrac had joined them as well. That allowed her to join, and although her mother had not been happy – and supremely worried about her reputation – she had bowed down to determination in the end.

With Courfeyrac came the boy Gavroche who lost no time in curling up on a rug in front of the stove like a little dog, dropping off to sleep the moment his head hit the floor.

Their merry little band was completed by Bahorel, who would not easily be parted from Elodie, and so here they were, seven people in a place fashioned for three, and settled in for another night in chaos.

Feuilly was breathing shallowly, his eyes closed, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead, but his fingers were carefully searching for Katya's, and she gave his wandering hand something to hold on to.

"I'm here", she said softly and was rewarded with a wan smile.

"I would so like to be in a condition to appreciate that more."

Katya could not help but laughing softly.

"Ever wanting more, don't you Maurice?" She bowed over to give a kiss onto his forehead, but he winced and she pulled back quickly with an apology. "Why don't you let me do the appreciating and you focus on getting well again."

Feuilly sighed softly. "I suppose I have little choice", he answered sadly. "Although… are you sure it's wise? You being here?"

"It's a bit late to worry for my reputation", Katya gave back with some amusement. "To the world I am practically engaged to the man that is now sharing a room with that lovely creole and I don't even know if I want to know how they manage."

"He is with Adelaide…?" Feuilly asked, slightly more awake. He even tried to open his eyes, blinking rapidly against the half-darkness, and pallor rose into his cheeks again. Katya put a careful, tender hand over his eyes, and he complied, tension leaving his body again with a breathy exhale.

"That's not for you to solve tonight", Katya contradicted firmly, her fingers very softly threading through the thick hair at his temples before she took away her hand again. "Although she seems to be an interesting person, that Adelaide. I seem to have managed to alienate her in a heartbeat, although I am not fully sure how."

Feuilly winced.

"You have said it yourself, dearest", he answered quietly. "To the world you're all but engaged to Courfeyrac. And you know what sort of man he is."

Katya raised a brow. That explained at least the icy gazes that she had received. Knowing Barthélemy, she could not really fault the girl for it.

"Ah", she answered. "I should have guessed it. Although I am almost tempted to say that it suits him right to be with her then." She kept her tone dry – she did like Courfeyrac and was infinitely indebted to him, but she was under no illusions when it came to his collection of lovely ladies that he had acquired over the years. In fact, he probably would have appreciated to include her in it, but the one time that topic had been breached, she had been unambiguous about her opinion on the matter, and he had settled for the game of make-believe instead.

Her dry joke called forth a laughter from Maurice, followed by a cough and an immediate wince.

"You, Katjuschka, are an evil woman", he informed her jokingly, "with too sharp a tongue for your own good."

Katya smiled good-naturedly.

"That's what you love me for", she gave back unfazed, and his features relaxed slightly, as if that statement alone had brought some small measure of calm. He pressed her fingers softly.

"Yes", he replied after a while, without a smile, and more pensievely. "That's what I love you for."

Silence settled for a moment, comfortable as a warm blanket wrapped around both of them, and Katya already wondered if he had fallen asleep when he spoke again.

"It feels wrong to joke on a day such as this", he confessed quietly.

"It's not", she contradicted, equally quiet, but with deep conviction. "It is never wrong to laugh, Maurice. But it is also not wrong to cry."

He swallowed, almost convulsively.

"Generally spoken, yes. In this case…. I am not sure I would want to inflict that on my head." He bit his lip and took a deep breath, his fingers clenching around Katya's again, and all she could do was to return the gesture, in an assuring manner.

"Then try to sleep, Maurice", she answered, her fingers dancing over his hand. "Just try to sleep. I will be here in the morning."

Some time later, finally, his rage had subsided, and they were lying side by side, covered in sweat, returning from frenzy. Bahorel waited for his breath to return, for his vision to clear from the red of fury and the sharp silver of desire to be able to face the world again.

It had helped, if only a little. Elodie – he had to give her that – knew him well.

At least he was feeling alive again, a wretched sort of alive, the kind that comes with the pain of a raw and open wound, but anything was better than the blind rage that bordered on abandon, which had gripped him as they had carried out Grantaire from the ruins of the Corinthe. Anything was better than the unknown feeling of dread gnawing its way into his bones where it had no business being.

Blood still running quickly through his veins from exertion past, he felt as if he at least had found some shreds of himself among the ruins of this night.

Elodie, while he contemplated and recovered, pushed herself up to lean against the bedrest and began untangling the red braid that had become half undone in the course of the last half hour, rebraiding it with the habit of many years. Her skin was pale, shimmering in the dim candle light, the freckles that covered her skin almost head to toe were barely visible now.

She was not joking now, just watching him with a slight smirk as she finished her braiding, finishing it with a ribbon that was lying on the nightstand.

"Feeling better?" she asked with something that might have been amusement or even worry.

"Nothing will make me feel better tonight", he growled. "Except maybe to catch the guy that's responsible for it and give him a bullet to the head. And a good beating. Not necessarily in that order."

Elodie sighed and nodded.

"I somewhat gathered that", she gave back drily. "Although I must say I'm not sure if I should feel offended. Apparently I'm losing my touch."

"You're certainly not", Bahorel gave back, the memories of the time past still vivid. She tossed the braid back over her shoulder.

"Why, that's very gallant of you, Monsieur."

"Elodie", he answered, attempting for a gentle tone and failing. "I'm not in the mood for banter."

"That's not what I gathered from what transpired here", she gave back nonplussed, sliding down again to come lying next to him. "But I can be all serious and proper if that's required."

She turned to her back and crossed her ankles in what seemed to be a fairly comfortable gesture.

"And moping has never done anyone any good, you know? Except for the kind that involves sweeping a floor which at least adds up to cleanliness and such. But you may be right and banter is not the call of the hour. So tell me, what is?"

He felt his teeth clenching, gritting together in a rage that was only barely suppressed by the last hour.

"Blood is, Elodie. Blood calls for blood. Grantaire died for Enjolras. I've seen it. If not for him, Enjolras would be dead. That's sacrifice, if I've ever seen one. And whoever placed that machine infernale will pay. And dearly."

"Hm", Elodie answered, apparently slightly disquieted.

"And you will deliver that justice I assume."

He could not fully suppress a rush of excitement at the mere thought of the possibility. To take out his rage in an act of copulation was a pale comparison to what relief it would be to take it out against the actual culprit. To avenge Grantaire's death to the fullest, to repay suffering with suffering, and blood with blood.

But this was no talk for a woman.

"Let's not discuss that, Elodie", he brushed her off, almost rudely, but Elodie was an easy, sunny spirit and would not take offense. "Believe me. You don't want to know."