Thanks for the incredible responses, gifsets and stuff I have received for the last chapter.

You are glorious.

Thanks again to judybear!

Here comes the next one... I hope you like it. Comments make my day :)

Chapter 46: Sparkles of light

"Faith sustains us in the hour when reason tells us that we can not continue, that the whole of our whole lives is without meaning."

If at this very hour, in the middle of the night, in an apartment that he had, in earlier times, visited more often than recently, a sudden and unexpected force of nature would have opened the wooden boards of the floor below his feet to swallow him whole, he would probably have appreciated it and, depending on the outcome, maybe even offered said force of nature a profound and utter thanks.

However, he was by no means that lucky.

Courfeyrac prided himself in his ability to deal with all sorts of people, in the happy circumstance that had gifted him with a nature that went out to people and was able to spread ease in even the direst of social circumstances. Combeferre, partly in joke only, had told him more than once that it might have been this ability of his alone that kept their diverse group of friends from tearing themselves apart between the extremes of opinions and characters.

History showed, that he always found the appropriate word, or the accurate measure of the situation.

The same gift that allowed him to do this now told him, that this particular situation was absolutely hopeless. And that there was no chance of improving it any time soon.

It had been only natural that he had joined Elodie and Adelaide. Not because he was close to them – that time was indeed past – but because of Feuilly, who needed a safe place as close as possible, and because of Katya, who needed Feuilly.

He had not thought about the consequences of it in advance, or otherwise he would have tried to extract himself from the situation.

As it were, he had not and now there was nothing that remained but to see it through.

Gavroche had remained in the kitchen, curling up in front of the stove in uncharacteristic quietness, and Courfeyrac had almost wanted to find out if he had survived the day intact, but the little boy had been asleep almost instantly – which spoke of exhaustion as well as of sadness – and Courfeyrac had decided that the boy probably needed the rest.

Which left him now with Adelaide in her silent room.

The walls around them were paper thin. He could not hear Feuilly and Katya speaking - they were occupying the room of Louise, who apparently spent the night with her current beau, whoever that was, because it was on the other side of the kitchen. He could, however, hear Bahorel and Elodie clearly enough to know that they were certainly doing anything but to speak.

The sounds were at odds with the icy silence that Adelaide radiated, and Courfeyrac could not remember ever having felt so awkward.

He had sat down on the bed at an off-handed gesture from her, while she took a chair at a small bureau herself.

She had more books now, Courfeyrac realized, looking at the shelf that had considerably filled since the last time he had been here. They had not parted on good terms, and it had been more than two months since their last encounter. Certainly, he would not have thought to be back so soon.

He considered going out to check on Gavroche, but somehow he did not think that this would improve the overall situation – or Adelaide's mood. Leaving the apartment was out of the question – he had had to promise Madame Woroniecka not to leave her daughter out of sight, and while he was not inclined to follow this to the word, strolling around Paris was stretching this agreement a bit too far. He was entertaining several amusing thoughts though on the manifold ways he would ask for compensation for this scene from both Katya and Feuilly. This was so much better, so very much easier than reliving the horrific scenes of the hours before, the blood and the deaths and the grief that threatened to grip him.

And yet, these harmless images were not strong enough to will away what he had seen.

Or the uneasiness of the situation he found himself in.

"Adelaide", he began, carefully, and while she did not turn to look at him, at least she straightened slightly, a movement that washed through her whole body. "For what it is worth, I am sorry."

She snorted slightly and he saw a mock brow rise.

"For what?" she asked.

"For intruding upon you", Courfeyrac answered earnestly. "I appreciate the help, and I am not sure what we would have done if you had not appeared there. I am not sure we would have been able to bring Feuilly home so easily. But I know it was unwillingly done on your part."

"You should know me well enough, Barthélemy", Adelaide answered coolly, "to know that I do not do things unwillingly if I can help it. I do not shy away from decisions, though."

He could not deny that – Adelaide had shown remarkable decisiveness. He had known her well and yet he had been surprised at the grit she had exhibited when times became rough and the fundamentals of her beliefs had been challenged.

He would not underestimate her that way again.

"Still", he said. "It's somewhat awkward."

She almost laughed at that, a quiet huff of breath that could have been annoyance just as well.

"Ever the honest one where it does not hurt you, Barthélemy, aren't you?"

Courfeyrac made a face, rubbing over his forehead with a grimace. The cold retort had somewhat taken the wind out of his sails, and he felt that he slowly lost his patience to be friendly. The horrendous day had left its traces, and the layers of civility were growing thin. He made another attempt at calming the situation

"If you're angry with me I can understand that, Adelaide. I know you are angry. And I would not have bothered you here, if you had not offered and we had not been in need of a shelter. But.. please." He rubbed over his face in one movement, pushing back his locks. "I am not sure I feel up to banter today."

Adelaide fell silent, and he saw her fingers playing around the corner of her bureau. For a moment she seemed to ponder what he said, but at least there was no callous response, and Courfeyrac felt himself slightly relax.

"You surely have a way of antagonizing people", she remarked after a while, and for a moment there was the dry humor in her voice that he remembered, the sharp spirit combined with a burning fire that had drawn him to her when he had first met her courtesy of Elodie. Half in memory, he felt the remnant of a smile on his face.

"So it would seem", he answered, the smile paling again in the thought of the price they had paid today. "I will readily admit that it was intended in some areas. The response was… fierce, though."

"You have been incautious, Charles says", Adelaide commented. "Much too open about your goals with all those speeches in public places."

"Charles?" Courfeyrac raised a brow in surprise. „Charles Jeanne?"

Now Adelaide did indeed turn to watch him, lips curling in mockery.

"Did you think I would stop believing in change just because I stopped believing in you?"

Courfeyrac shook his head. Another of the things he should have known. And given her situation, Charles Jeanne was not the worst of choices. Champion for the workingmen in the quarter, and since that one fateful evening, utterly estranged from Enjolras and his group, much to Courfeyrac's dismay.

"I guess I shouldn't have", he responded. "And it is true in a sense. Charles has not been targeted as we have."

Adelaide made a small, confirming sound and silence fell again, not quite as hostile as the one before, and Courfeyrac felt the weariness creeping into his bones. Also, now that he had been safe and quiet for a while, he felt the smoke and dust sticking to his face, hair and clothes, skin itching and burning uncomfortably. He got up and went to the small cupboard upon which a washing bowl and a carafe of water were standing.

"May I?" he asked, and upon her nod he tried to scrub away the worst of the traces of the day, but even in the dim light he could see how quickly the water of the bowl turned from clear to black.

"It's not that they have not tried, though", Adelaide said, all of a sudden, and Courfeyrac would almost have thrown down the carafe as he turned around hastily.

"What?"

Adelaide was looking at him pensievely from her chair, like a panther lurking in the darkness.

"I don't know the particulars", she reiterated. "But I do know that Jeanne removed someone from the group a couple of months back. It seems as if someone had been given information on them to outsiders."

Courfeyrac frowned.

"How did they realize it? Where did that come from?"

Adelaide shrugged.

"Like I said. I don't know any details. It happened before I joined them. But with all that has happened, it surely puts things in perspective. Given today's events… and from what I heard this was not the first attack, was it?"

Courfeyrac shook his head slowly.

"No", he said. "It was not."

In brief words he relayed the attacks of the past days, the deaths of Marcel Devereux, Alexandre de Cambout and the Virille brothers, and, later, Armand; and the things that happened since then – the assembly, the imprisonment of Hélène de Cambout and their desperate attempts at finding out what was behind all this.

When he had ended, Adelaide was silent as well, gazing at him with a deep frown upon her features. She had placed her fingers against her lips and was contemplating what he had said.

Absent-mindedly, Courfeyrac realized that the noises from the adjacent room had subsided.

"Dire things", Adelaide finally ventured into the silence of the room. "And a very serious game. Perhaps you should ask Charles or someone who has been with them longer than I have what exactly has happened there. " She sighed. "Or I could ask him if you want. With all that is going on, we cannot afford to dwell on grudges."

Courfeyrac took a deep breath and splashed water into his face. That was more than he had expected, and a slightly hopeful sign at that.

"That would be… much appreciated", he replied softly. "I fear this night has made me indebted to you in a multitude of manners."

"I don't want your debt", she answered coolly. "That's not what this is about. It's about changing the world."

He dried his hands on his trousers – a few more dark smudges there would hardly do any more damage than had already happened.

"Still", he answered. "I won't forget it."

It was a step forward, a small one at least.

And Courfeyrac was used to taking his comforts in small bits and pieces.

Jehan started his watch in the early morning hours, the sun already coloring the sky in a dreadful, bloody red. He had taken over from Bossuet, who immediately curled up into a sofa again, falling asleep almost without a second thought.

Jehan envied him this peace of mind.

Marius had finally fallen asleep on the sofa, after having taken first watch and then fussing enough during his attempts to find rest that he had woken Jehan in his armchair twice. He had not asked the reason for it, but he assumed, that in addition to the disastrous conversation with Éponine, his visit to Cosette had not gone well at all.

And then there was the matter of the Corinthe.

And that was too dreadful to even think of it.

Joly had taken the bed, curled up deeply enough that only the mop of his sandy hair could be seen over the blankets. He had taken a bowl from the kitchen and half filled it with water to place it next to the bed just in case he became sick during the night.

Apparently he had been in contact with a cholera patient during the day.

Time passed slowly as Jehan watched the sun rise, trying not to relive the specters that had haunted his dreams – his friends' shocked tale of the incidents at the Corinthe, the lifeless bodies that he had dragged out of the sewers together with what remained of the sections of picpus – and instead searched for the memory of the one bright spot during the day.

The place and time that he had met Azelma could not have been more gruesome, but like a candle in a darkened room she stood out more among these dreadful things than she would have, had he met her on the streets. Still it was utterly inexplicable how she could have captured his regard in that way, and yet, there was no need to question a gift unexpectedly given.

There were depths to her, which was certain after the glimpses he had been granted, and he wondered how he could bring it about to explore them more deeply with the webs that both of them were entangled in.

She was born into bad company; that much was sure. Graverobbers, beggars and thieves seemed to be the companions of her days, and yet she had managed to preserve something within her that was almost… innocent.

At least now he knew where to find her, and that was a grace in itself, although he had no idea where this venture would lead him.

But that was not the essence of it. The essence was to take what was given and feel it in full, be it bliss or grief, joy or pain.

Thus was the core of a Romantic heart.

He felt a small smile creeping on his features when his thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door and Jehan involuntarily flinched.

The pale morning hours had softened his alarm and worry, although there was no justification for it given the fact how severe the latest attacks on them had been, and how high the price. And yet – would an assassin with an intent to kill really knock on his door before forcing entry?

Jehan slowly approached the door, in passing grabbing the loaded pistol that was lying on the table to have a weapon handy and spoke through the door.

"Yes?"

"Prouvaire? Is that you?"

Jehan recognized the voice immediately, and so he opened the door to reveal not only Heinrich Heine, but, in his company, also Pierre Berat, the xylographist of Le Globe.

"Thank God", Heine blurted out, almost at once, "I was worried half out of my wits after I heard what happened in the Rue de Chanvrerie. Are you unharmed?"

Jehan placed a finger to his lips and stepped aside to grant entrance to his two visitors, who, hat and cap in hand entered the apartment.

"Oh. I apologize." Heine seemed to be slightly concerned as he saw the sleeping figures on the couch and sofa, but Jehan shook his head softly.

"Don't worry. Everything is out of sorts anyhow, and we are not exactly living a normal life as it were." He smiled carefully and Heine slowly shook his head.

"I did not realize it was this bad, my friend", he answered full of sympathy, placing his hat on the hat stand next to the door. "Still I would hate to know that we are an inconvenience to you."

Jehan shook his head and moved over to the stove to start a fire under a kettle to heat some water.

"You should not worry", he answered simply. "We're friends. And we would be getting up in half an hour anyway."

Heine seemed only partly convinced, and yet not too inclined to contradict Jehan, and so, at his notice, he took a seat at the table, followed by Pierre Berat, who tried to tread softly as not to wake anyone.

Jehan, as soon as the kettle was well under way to boiling, joined his visitors and took a good look at them. Both seemed to have spent the night about – the traces of weariness were only too obvious in both their faces. This was usual for Pierre, who was involved in the printing process of le Globe and often worked into the nightly hours, but for Heine this was slightly less characteristic.

"We as we are here are unharmed", Jehan answered finally to the question long gone. He did not manage to mention the loss of Grantaire, not yet, not now, as the pain was still so fresh.

"And the others?" Of course Heine would not let it be. His journalism curiosity had him ill equipped to let matters stand as they were, but the concern in his eyes at least was genuine.

Jehan took a deep breath. He had tried not to venture into these dark recesses yet, but now that he had no choice, he felt the tears standing in his eyes, blurring his vision and threatening to run down his cheeks.

"We have lost Grantaire", he said thickly, and speaking the words aloud somehow made it real, flooding his memory with images of the comrade, his antics and laughs, his jokes and ramblings. Gone, all gone forever.

Heine took a moment to connect the name to a face, but his response was immediate none the less.

"This is gruesome to hear", he said, "and I am so very sorry for it."

Jehan, placing his head in his hands, took a deep breath.

"It is", he confirmed, voice slightly muffled as composure returned only slowly. "I do not want to even think on it." That was more easily said then done, and Jehan would have been glad for something to do in this moment, because it would have allowed time to smooth over the roughest edges of the pain, but it was not to be had.

"Ah, but it has to be thought on", Heine answered almost sadly, "is it not that way? The memory of a fallen comrade must be honored with grief and with deeds of determination, don't you think?"

Something in his tone made Jehan look up frowning.

"What do you mean by that, Heine?"

The german poet hesitated for a moment, before he lowered his eyes and shook his head.

"Ever coming back to the same discussion, are we, Jehan? I was not talking about myself, as you well know, and if it is confirmation of my words you seek - that I am not certain the amount of violence that you are envisaging will allow to change circumstances in its own right in France, that has already seen so many revolutions - I am willing to reiterate. Still I know you and your friends well enough you will do what you deem must be done. And you have lost a friend of the same mind today, so his memory must be honored, not pushed aside."

"I know all that", Jehan gave back. "Believe me. I know all of it. But there are times…", he hesitated, as his face went to the pale spectre of dawn outside his windows, "there are times where I feel as if these days overpower me in their intensity. It is too much, too soon, too close."

"Days of catharsis", Heine answered. "This these days certainly are. Unrest is stirring all around, in France and beyond her borders."

Jehan frowned.

"Beyond the borders you say? What are you talking about?"

"I have received splendid news from Bavaria, and Germany all around. The people are in uproar against their circumstances of living, gathering, demanding a revolution of the French kind. The cry is out for parliaments, for the demolition of the old order of nobility. A huge crowd of more than twenty thousand has assembled in Hambach, near Bavaria, to demand freedom and revolution under the cover of a celebration of the German nationality, and several corresponding events have come up all over the south and as far north as Frankfurt."

A pale smile appeared on the german poet's face.

"We may see a German revolution yet, to follow the French one we had."

"Or to show the French how it is indeed done without ending up with another king", Pierre Berat all of a sudden joined the discussion, kneading his cap in hand. A slightly wry smile was lying on his features, but he quickly lowered his gaze again as if feeling slightly uneasy at joining the poets' discussion.

"One might…", Heine began, but then shook his head and brushed aside with a slight movement of his hand whatever he had intended to say. "This is not a day for political debate, I will admit. None the less I thought you could use the news."

"We can indeed." Jehan felt a familiar surge of excitement at the mere thought of the spirit of revolution taking flight again. It had been blazing in Poland – and brutally quenched later – but it seemed as if a spark such as these dreams was not so easily distinguished. This, if nothing else, was encouragement to join their German brothers again and complete the deed half done, the revolution half succeeded, together with them; unified in the same dreams.

It was a signal of hope after a day of such darkness, and Jehan appreciated it to the fullest.

"Congratulations to the courage of your German compatriots then", he recommended, "and the best of luck in chasing away the stuffy old guard of Vienna and its minions."

"And Berlin, while we are at it." Again, there was a slightly ironic smile around the mouth of the German poet, but still, below that layer of sarcasm Jehan could sense an enthusiasm that was rare in the man who considered himself one that had managed to flee from the romantic tradition – which, in Jehan's opinion, he had not quite succeeded to do.

"Why not?" he asked therefore, and the kettle choose this particular moment to hoot to signal that the water was boiling, and Jehan hopped up, almost toppling the chair in the process. He prepared the coffee and began to hear the shuffling all around the apartment as his friends - awoken by the insistent kettle – began to wake and get on their feet.

There was a round of introductions and greetings. Apart from Marius, who had been in contact with Heine via le Globe and the Saint-Simonians, the others were not acquainted intimately with the German poet, and Berat, while having been in dealings with the friends of the ABC before, had always stepped back behind the more socializing de Cambouts.

Finally, as they sat around the table drinking coffee and breaking their fast on the supplies that Jehan had produced out of his cupboards, Heine gave his news again and the possibility of not only a French, but indeed an European revolution drawing nearer lifted their spirits after the dreadful events of the day before.

"You are most welcome", Bossuet said jovially, clapping the poet onto the shoulder. Heine flinched slightly but answered with a smile none the less. It seemed difficult to maintain his usual distance under the fully fledged assault of a significant amount of Jehan's friends.

Only belatedly Jehan realized, that the worry for their safety and the news from abroad did explain Heine's presence – but it did not explain why Berat had come here as well. The xylographist was not in the habit of joining their gatherings too often, and if he came, he usually did so with a reason.

Jehan used a pause in the discussion to pose a question to that effect, and Berat smiled almost thankfully.

"I met with Monsieur Heine in the Boulevard des Italiens", he began, while he fished for his satchel, placing it onto his lap and opening the clasp that fastened it. "We exchanged news between us – Monsieur delivered an article on the events in Germany to be published in Le Globe in exchange for a few words of news on our side to go to Augsburg – and he mentioned that he would want to visit you afterwards. So I took the opportunity to join to deliver something to you in person."

He took out a stack of papers from his satchel and placed it in the middle of the table.

"As you probably know, during the police raid that took Madame to prison my working table was raided and the drawings that we had of the assassins had vanished. However, I sat down directly after the theft was discovered to salvage what I could remember, and at least for the one assassin who attacked you, the picture and my memory of it was clear enough to still produce a drawing that hopefully carries enough of his likeness. I did not have the time for a xylograph yet – it is being done as we speak – but before this my boys and I have made several copies per hand not to loose the image once more. I hope it meets with your approval."

He took two papers and handed them to Jehan and Marius, and staring back from it there was indeed the man that had attacked them at the market, the clear, deeply cut features, the lines, the sharp nose. It was not quite as good as the original image, but it was more than enough for recognition.

Marius nodded his approval and clapped Berat's shoulder.

"That's splendid work, Berat", he praised, and the xylographist for all his modesty looked pleased. "That's definitely enough for recognition and distribution."

"You do not have enough yet to plaster the streets with this but I am sure it will come", Berat answered. "For now, there are nine copies; each of us made three of them, in addition to the original one that is now transcribed at le Globe. Monsieur Chevalier was kind enough to decide to make do for tomorrow's edition with only two new images, so that we could work on this during the night."

"My profoundest thanks to Chevalier, this is fantastic and unexpected. I am sure we will be able to conduct a search already with these, and it will not be as easy to take them away this time.

"This is what I hoped", Berat answered with a slight smile. "I do not appreciate my handcraft being ruined."

Jehan felt a sudden rush of affection for the man, who was never imposing, an artisan of the quiet nature, and yet so capable and in his own way so very proud of what he did.

There was need in abundance for men such as him in a new republic.

Feuilly awoke feeling very odd indeed.

His headache had receded only slightly – the pounding between his eyes was still violent and strong, but the nausea had diminished a little, which was already a significant relief in itself.

He felt warm and at peace despite the horrific images of the day before and was fairly certain to have slept restfully and dreamlessly, which was already a grace in itself.

He saw the light of day creeping into the room through his closed eyes, and it must be full morning by now, probably even half way to midday, and this thought roused him from his comfortable position.

It was morning past.

Friday.

He should be at work.

He shot up and immediately felt is head responding angrily, a wave of nausea telling him that he indeed had not recovered at all, and still, the fright and adrenaline rushing through him kept him afloat for a moment.

They were not very forgiving when it came to missed hours at his work…

"Maurice…?"

The voice sounded sleepy and golden, and was completely unexpected in this morning scenario, and so, finally, Feuilly opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness of the sun and became aware of his surroundings.

He was lying in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed, and he was not alone. Katya had curled up next to him, golden head lying next to where his shoulder had just been, her eyes squinting open sleepily as her hand slipped from his other shoulder to his stomach due to the fact that he was sitting up now and she was not.

She was fully dressed, and still, of course this was indecent, but the temptation not to mind was so very strong. She did not seem to, at least.

Looking at him, she frowned and sat up, her carefully arranged coiffure of the day before now in disarray, and she looked utterly charming, disheveled as she was, cheeks still red from sleep and eyes only half open as she clawed her way back to wakefulness.

"What… what is the matter?"

He closed his eyes against the rolling pain in his head, swallowed hard as he forced out: "I'm… late for work."

Her hand moved back from his stomach to his shoulder, and a soft pressure bid him lay down again. Something within him was protesting, but it was not strong enough and he slid back softly, his whole body seeming to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Certainly not", Katya said, and when he cautiously opened his eyes again he realized that she was hovering half over him, some strands of her blond hair rolling over his chest. It was difficult to focus on her, it increased the headache, but there was also the distracting scent of her, and the presence of her next to him that made concentrating increasingly difficult. "You are in no condition to go to work and you know it."

"But…", he began, yet she would not have it. Her hand wandered from his shoulder to his forehead, pushing aside a few strands of hair from there.

"No", she said firmly. "We have already sent a messenger to notify the atelier, and you are most certainly not going today."

"I'm not sure they'll…", he began, thinking of the various rush-ins and reprimands he had experienced over the years.

"They will, don't you worry. Courfeyrac will sort it out. And you shouldn't concern yourself with it."

"I don't want to become more indebted to you or….", but this time, she cut into his speech almost angrily.

"For God's sake, Maurice, will you stop this? You could have died in there. For a while I thought you died." For a moment, her blue eyes seemed glassy and pained, but she blinked it away quickly. "And you are ill and in no condition to work, and so you are not going and that is final. This is not about debt." Her voice took on a softer quality, and her fingers ran along his face, a gesture that was now easier to bear than yesterday evening, especially when he closed his eyes to follow the sentiment. "This is about friendship", she continued. "And love. Will you accept that, you stubborn, stupid man?" He felt her dropping a kiss onto his forehead and contentment washed through him, almost unbidden. His fingers came to rest on her elbow, softly wandering along the fabric of her dress there, lace probably worth a week's wages of his, and yet she was here, and close, and she was Katya.

"Sometimes I wonder what I've done", he answered quietly, and she huffed, almost as a reprimand. He heard and felt her shuffle so that she came to lie next to him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her warmth so near and immediate.

"You're you", she answered simply. "And I'm me."

As if that would answer everything.