Sorry for taking so long... christmas and all.

Here's the next one, hope you enjoy it :-)

Comments make my day. In other news - have a nice christmas!

Love, Spirit

Chapter 55: Heart over head

Now, if this bothers you, I suggest you stay in your room, stick your fingers in your ears, and hum real loud until it's over! Unless you'd like to try something as breathtakingly rational as trying to open up a dialog?

"You have got to be joking!"

The white-clad brother in front of him flinched slightly at the display of anger but Bahorel couldn't have cared less. The hot rage behind his eyes was desperately seeking some way of venting, and the Picpus brother who had been so stupid – so utterly, totally stupid – to nourish the snake at his bosom for years on end, was not the most undeserving of goals.

Bahorel clenched his fists, fingers vibrating with tension.

The brother was a spindly man, elderly and thin, a seemingly too large head was sitting on a neck that did not seem thicker than a twig.

It would be so easy to reach out and just… snap.

But of course that would not do.

Bahorel snarled and whirled around, taking to pacing through the room, trying not to think of the fact that another of their group had been hurt… severely injured. Not dead, at least – thank heavens for that small grace – but still, the rage was almost impossible to contain.

"Listen", he snarled, not bothering to even look at the man, "my friend has been hurt on your grounds. By one of your order. I will go in there now. I'd prefer you let me through, but you will pardon me that my patience for trusting you and your brethren is currently at an end."

"Frater Franciscus will not like that", the man gave back ruefully and it sounded more like a last line of defense. Bahorel, however, was not in the mood to be gracious and gave him a deadly stare that probably convinced him, that the displeasure of this Frater Franciscus was easier to weather than his.

"I", he said, putting emphasis on every single word, keeping his voice down with significant effort only. "Don't. Care. One of you tried to kill my friend, and you will let me see him!"

The man before him opened his mouth, once, twice, before he was able to formulate an answer.

"I… we still do not know what has happened in the chapel", he answered cautiously, and obviously aware that he was treading dangerous ground. There was little wonder, if the rest of his order was just as demure, that they had been deceived so well. The stupidity was laughable.

"I told you", Bahorel iterated again, patience running thin. "And I'm fed up doing that again. Go and see for yourself, if you can stomach it, and let me see my friend."

The man almost shrank away from him.

"Your friend is being treated", he answered carefully. "I cannot…"

Bahorel felt something within him release and he lurched forward, grabbing the brother by the collar, shoving him into the wall.

"You can", he demanded. "You will." He shook the spindly brother a bit, just for good measure, and the man let out a pitiful cry, which did nothing to soothe Bahorel's temper.

"You will", he reiterated once more.

"You will release him." The new voice was calm but had a bite to it that reached more easily through Bahorel's fury than the brother's attempt at deescalation had. "This instant."

Still pinning the brother at the wall, Bahorel whirled around towards the speaker and found himself in front of another Picpus monk. White-clad as the others, but sturdier than the thin man he was still holding in custody. He was half a head smaller than Bahorel, with a broad face, low forehead, a narrow nose and grey hair that stubbornly curled about his ears. If he was intimidated or angered by the scene he did not show it, but his eyes did betray a determination that was not easily brushed aside. He was older than his brother in spirit, and infinitely calmer.

Bahorel found himself obeying, albeit reluctantly, and the brother let out a shudder of relief as the student released him from his grip without even turning back to him.

However, it felt more as if he had turned to another, more formidable opponent. Bahorel had always been challenged and encouraged by opposition, and today was no exception to the rule. While the newly arrived brother was no match for his rage, his determination was comparable, and this seemed to be a better target than the previous object of his focus.

"This is a house of God", the brother reminded him softly, but unyielding, steel under a voice of silk.

"Being in a house of God", Bahorel bit back, "has not prevented my friend from almost getting killed."

For a moment, there was a sorrowful notion in the eyes of the man, but he did not indulge in this weakness for long. Yet, the shrug had a slightly rueful quality to it without being submissive.

"I take your point Monsieur. One will see what we have to make of this incident. But for now I think both our focuses should be on mending, and not on inflicting more harm, should it not?"

Bahorel was not so certain about this. A good fight would take the edge off his anger, and probably soothe the feeling of helplessness that held him in a grip. Venting his anger had always seemed easier than swallowing it. And more appropriate. Especially with culprit targets around.

"Don't count on it if I meet him."

"If you meet him. We are searching the grounds, but with little success for now." The slight smile that found its way onto his lips was remarkably mirthless. "But we have time."

"Time. Sure." Bahorel snorted in disgust.

"What would you have me do, Monsieur?" The man's eyes were cool and unyielding as iron. "I am not a flagellant to inflict bodily punishment to atone for my sins. I – we – have other means."

"Such as?"

"Mending what can be mended. A helping hand in need. Revenge is a vain thing, Monsieur."

"This is not revenge." Bahorel did not take well to being patronized, and even though he was not fooled by the calm behavior of the monk – he probably would never again look at a monk without a tiny spark of suspicion – he felt irritated by his paternal manner. Surprisingly, it had calmed him down slightly, none the less. "I wanted nothing but to see my friend who is somewhere in this building", his arms flailed around as if to illustrate the mysterious "somewhere". "You'll forgive me if I'm somewhat suspicious of your order right now."

"I see", the man before him answered. "This is understandable."

"There, you see", Bahorel said, not without a certain satisfaction. "And now – my friend."

The man looked at him and heaved the slightest of sighs.

"Very well, Monsieur", he said. "Follow me then."

Bahorel almost expected the other brother to throw himself into another fit of objections, but surprisingly, the word of the man before him seemed to have overridden any concerns he might have had. He decided to count his blessings, follow, and leave any additional necessary measures to a later time and another place.

Jehan should – and would – come first.

Passing through a door, a corridor, a turn and then another door, they arrived at a small, well-lit chamber. The windows were flooded with afternoon light that, unlike the previous days, was partly hidden and dimmed by clouds. On a narrow cot, Jehan was sitting while another Picpus brother flittered about muttering to himself discontentedly.

His young poet friend looked as if he had been to hell and back.

His shoulder was still hanging at an awkward angle, his clothing was bloodstained and soiled, and a thin, bloody mark around his neck was starting to turn purple and served as a constant reminder, how close to dying Jehan had been. He was pale and seemed quite shaken.

Bahorel felt the rage boiling up again. Another friend had fallen prey to the cruelty of those that had apparently decided to pursue them. Just like yesterday, he had been unable to do something. And unlike yesterday, the state his friend was in was partly his fault.

Because he had abandoned him for a set of pretty eyes and bubbling laughs. Because he had been selfish, and easily distracted. Jehan had been alone because Bahorel had found something better to do.

That would teach him carelessness in times of panic.

Jehan's face was a mask of pain and worry. He looked up at Bahorel's entry and relief spread on his features, deep and desperate and sad.

"Bahorel! God be thanked!" he exclaimed, and at his words the brother, obviously versed in the medical lore, whirled around with surprising fierceness. He was half a head smaller than the dandy, not quite thick but sturdy with a homely face and fleshy hands. And apparently unfazed by the intruder's fury.

The man accompanying him, however, was quite a different matter. The reaction was so sudden and absolute that Bahorel wondered who exactly the man was that brought him here.

"Frater Pierre", he said with immediate reverence and bowed his head, answering the unuttered question that had been walking through the student's mind. With a name, his face was much easier to place indeed. He knew little of the Picpus order or its structure, but Pierre Coudrin, its founder, had a reputation radiant enough that even secular Bahorel was not able to dismiss it.

He had thought the father had left Paris a long time ago but the evidence to the contrary stood in front of his eyes. It explained the natural authority of the man, and the way he inspired deference in the brothers around them.

There was that, at least.

"Frater Franciscus", Coudrin answered. "I do not want to mingle with your domain any more than necessary. But I would say that circumstances are extraordinary today. I know you prefer to work with the patient alone, but I can, to a certain extent, understand the distrust of this young man, given the way this injury has occurred."

Franciscus narrowed his eyes, watching Bahorel carefully when Jehan's voice broke the argument, strained and with effort.

"Azelma…"

Jehan's voice sounded raspy and pained, and for a moment Bahorel had no idea what he was talking about. Franciscus, however, seemed to understand more quickly.

"We have brought the girl to the sisters", he answered. "I gave her to Sister Antoinette myself. Her condition was dire, and that is all that I can say for now."

Jehan passed a restless hand before his eyes.

"She… shouldn't have been there", he said. "She… will she live?"

Franciscus sighed.

"I hope so, but I had a quick look on her when the sisters took her away. There was a lot of blood. It will depend on the severity of the injury behind it, but you can be certain that she is in the best of hands."

"I would like to see her", Jehan said, almost wistfully, and Bahorel wondered why he had never seen this girl – or even heard of her – before. It was true that Jehan was quick to take a fancy, but usually, he would be very vocal about this. Whoever had caught his eye was unlikely to remain a secret from the rest of the group for long. But Azelma was a name he had not yet heard. He frowned deeply. "She will", Jehan continued full of sorrow, "hate to be alone, I am afraid…"

"Ah but if the sisters tend to her, that will be one room that neither you nor I will be able to gain admittance to", Coudrin answered. "This is women's work and they will not have you – or me – inside that room when they fight for the girl's life."

Jehan closed his eyes sadly and pressed his lips together for a moment, and Bahorel felt the rage rise again, deep and black and angry, at the pain of his friend and the condition of the girl.

"Apart from that, Monsieur", Franciscus continued, "you are not quite in a condition to be of any assistance to her yet. Your shoulder needs tending to, and while there is little I can do for your neck except of giving you a salve and some time to recover, I would like to make sure that these are the only injuries that you carry."

"I will send someone to the sisters", Coudrin offered as a compromise. "Maybe he will be able to learn how the girl is faring. In the meantime, although I know that you need and deserve time to rest and recover, I would like to discuss the matter of Brother Antoine. I have a feeling that things need to be done and time may be more of the essence than we hope."

"About time", growled Bahorel and found himself a chair to sit, only to get up again and prowl the room restlessly as Pierre Coudrin called upon a young novice to explain the matter to him.

"How are you feeling?" he turned to Jehan, who was following his restless pace with wide eyes, never once leaving him out of sight.

The young poet closed his eyes for a moment, while Franciscus gingerly fingered his shoulder. He paled a bit more in pain, and his voice came out wheezing, too much air with too little sound.

"Stupid. Worried. Undeserving."

Bahorel snorted.

"Undeserving? You have to be joking! I'm not sure who else could have walked in like that and lived. That man has probably killed half the Picpus cell, if not more, and you confront him and lived. Damn him, and damn me for not being there! That should never have happened."

He rammed his fist into the wall – some way to vent the anger – and his knuckles came back bloody and raw. The pain helped; somewhat at least.

"It was all her", Jehan whispered, voice broken by a moan as Frater Franciscus took hold of his arm, hand to palm and another one on the biceps. "All her…"

"What was her?" Bahorel asked, frowning, rubbing over his throbbing knuckles, not sure if he tried to soothe or enhance the pain.

"Azelma. She knew…", Jehan explained. "Knew that the man who attacked us had been walking with Frater Antoine… that's how I understood. And then… she saved…"

He stopped for a deeper, stronger moan that was almost a cry as Frater Franciscus suddenly pulled the arm and twisted, an almost brutal seeming movement that brought tears to Jehan's eyes and utterly winded him.

And Bahorel lurched forward.

"Will you let him go?" He thundered, tearing away Franciscus from his friend, who was curling into himself in pain, gasping for breath.

Frater Franciscus did not fight, probably too surprised for it as Bahorel took him into a death grip, twisting his hands onto his back as to avoid any more harm coming to his friend.

Or that was what he tried, when Pierre Coudrin interfered.

"Let him go."

Like before, his voice cut through the red rage like a knife through warm butter, and Bahorel, uncertainly, took a look at Jehan, who, still cringing, tried to look at him none the less.

"Better… now", he managed, and indeed, upon second look, the strange angle that his shoulder had been hanging in seemed to be mended, anatomy somewhat restored, and he was holding himself slightly less carefully. "Bahorel… please", Jehan continued, shaking his head, and finally, he realized that maybe he had indeed been in the wrong.

He released the brother with a jolt and a gruff apology, and now Coudrin stepped between them, clear eyes bright and unyielding.

"This cannot continue", he said sternly. "I do understand the distrust you harbor and will excuse your actions by way of general circumstance, but either we will start to trust one another or you will have to go. All three of you."

"But she needs the care", Jehan contradicted and Frater Coudrin nodded slowly.

"I presume that indeed she does. I would prefer that we start on the assumption that within this room neither wishes the other ill. We exchange information between us and see if there is grounds for understanding. For if I gather the half-told story correctly, then we have been deceived by the same person, and this person is still at loose. However, I will not have you attacking and harming my brethren. I offer you my help and what information I am able to give, but I will require a truce, if nothing more."

"Bahorel, he's right." Jehan still sounded raspy, but his voice was stronger and less pained. "They're trying to help, nothing else."

He did not like it. But he chose to honor Jehan's words at least, as he should have since this day began.

"A truce", he said, grudgingly. And Coudrin nodded.

"A truce", he confirmed.

They were sitting in a study, up in the second floor of the Dufranc mansion, and working with surprising concentration.

After his less than fruitful discussion with Monsieur de Cambout, Courfeyrac had asked the maid to bring him to his friends and found them nicely settled in a smaller room occupied by a few armchairs, a table and a lot of books. Coffee had been brought up and was consumed quickly as the law students set to work, sifting through the code and its interpretations, discussing strategies and littering the small table with sheets upon sheets of notes.

Pierre LaManche had not appeared yet and so they were on their own, but to his own surprise, Courfeyrac found his thoughts of yesterday mirrored again – there was some enjoyment to be had in this work.

Not the laws themselves, but the pattern behind it and the way that it would bend to his thoughts. Discussing, for the first time, the letters of the law seemed to become something more than mere words – a concept, a full picture – and Courfeyrac wondered which strokes of pen would alter the colors of the image.

But that was a thought for another day.

He poured himself another cup of coffee as Marius and he took a short break while Marc Lamarin read through a particular protocol of a parliamentary session – it had its advantages to be in the library of a long standing member of the council, and Dufranc had been particularly good at collecting information indeed.

Marius had already refilled his coffee and stood at the window with an expression of a man lost, a frown on his face, his eyes tired and sad. Courfeyrac wondered if he would see the same thing in a mirror, but he was not sure he wanted to know.

Therefore, for lack of a better idea, he stepped up to the friend and leaned against the windowsill, taking a careful sip of coffee before he began to speak.

"Are you alright?"

Marius' smile was wan, and somewhat embarrassed at being found out. However, lying seemed out of the question.

"No", he said sadly. "Not really."

Courfeyrac nodded. This was indeed no surprise. On the other hand, all of them had been caught in the same fire, and it was burning them by small measures.

"Stupid question, I know", he said, by way of trying to elicit a smile from his friend. "With all that happened, probably no one's alright right now."

Marius nodded slowly, but he seemed lost in thought, staring at the street outside, that, after the sun of the last days, now seemed to be covered by the heavy damp of an impending thunderstorm.

"I quarreled with Cosette", he finally confessed, and with this indeed surprised Courfeyrac. With all that had happened, he had not even factored Marius' mystery lady into the equation.

He was not sure if he should be annoyed at the remarkable single-mindedness of his friend, who in the midst of death and terror would still focus on his girl, or whether he should envy him to be able to find comfort, solace – and yes, also trouble – in this particular story.

Perhaps, he mused, it was a draw between both.

"What happened?" he asked, almost reflexively and earned himself a shrug that seemed almost hopeless.

"I don't know. She seems… changed."

Courfeyrac turned around so that he was facing the room instead of the window and helped himself to another sip of coffee.

"Changed in what aspect?" he prodded, trying to get the young baron's son to talk. Marius sighed deeply.

"I wish I knew. I… I don't know. She's always been so bright. Coming to her, it was all levity and warmth, and smile and laughter, and those lovely, lovely blue eyes. She is… like an angel. A place of safe heaven and light. And now…"

"What you describe is no human being", Courfeyrac replied, almost amusedly. "And I dimly remember to have told you so before. Are you sure that this change is not just you getting to know her and seeing her for a person instead of an idol?"

Marius shook his head violently.

"No. I'm sure that's not it. She…" He ran a hand through his hair and made a helpless sound and gesture, obviously at loss as to how to describe it. "The things she said…."

"How about you start at the beginning?" Courfeyrac proposed and mentally prepared himself for a longer conversation. "I presume when you saw her at Rue Plumet, everything was still as it should?"

Marius nodded.

"Yes", he said, and then, with an almost whistful smile, obviously remembering, "… oh, yes. But then…", he sighed, "then when I found her after they had relocated, she was so different."

Courfeyrac turned his head to watch his friend. He seemed to be truly in agony, but for now, there was little that he could do to help.

"Different in what manner?" he asked, trying to gain some more information before a diagnosis.

"I don't know." It was not easy not to find his lack of information infuriating. "Sadder. Darker. She… asked me strange things about my dreams. About what I dream. I… I told her that I dream of her and that seemed to make her even sadder and she told me she was dreaming badly." He shook his head and gulped down the rest of his coffee. "I told her that she was probably excited due to all that had happened; the assassin appearing at her doorstep, the relocation…. But that did not seem to console her."

Courfeyrac felt his brow rise.

"Did you actually ask her after her dreams?"

Marius hesitated for a moment, and then shook his head.

"No. I presumed that she had dreamt of the assassin. That's all too natural, an innocent angel's spirit is bound to be unsettled by such things… I still curse myself for bringing him to her, you can believe me that…"

Courfeyrac felt that he was narrowing down on what had happened, the song not yet clear, but the verses appearing.

"You presumed", he précised, "but in fact you did not know, is that correct?"

Marius hesitated, and shook his head.

"No", he confessed. "I didn't. I thought that if there was something particular to be known, she'd tell me…"

Courfeyrac discreetly let his head sink against the cool glass behind him. Marius was a good and loyal friend, but there were times where he would rather discuss human nature with Enjolras. However, he did not believe in paths half taken and so he continued instead.

"What happened next?"

"The next time I saw her was after I learned how Éponine had been a thief all of the time." Marius quickly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "I still can't imagine that…"

He placed his cup on the windowsill and his hands to either side of it, carefully staring into what remained of his coffee.

"I tried to talk to Cosette about it. I'll admit I was… unsettled. By her. By you even, because you defended her so. I was… confused."

"About what?" Courfeyrac prodded, frowning slightly.

"Look", Marius sighed. "I will not pretend to have seen or experienced much of the world. But I do believe that I have a notion of what is right and wrong. And you know that I… value friendship. Yours and Éponine's first and foremost. To have seen these things clash against each other left me unsettled."

He turned his head to look at Courfeyrac, and the pain in his eyes was true.

"I do know that the current system of the law is not as it should be. Buonaparte did… in some areas err, I will readily admit. But stealing should be a crime in any system, I think, and to have Éponine defend it so…"

"Éponine, my friend, is proud", Courfeyrac intercepted with a slight smile. "She may do things out of necessity, but she will not have pity. Especially not from you."

"Why not from me?" Marius asked, and Courfeyrac for a moment was sorely tempted to tell him the truth. But he knew that the gamine would not thank him, and this secret was not his to divulge. He settled for a half-truth instead that would lead Marius along the same way.

"Because she wanted to be your friend. Not your debtor."

"I am indebted to her father", Marius reminded him. "How could she be in my debt?"

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

"She wanted you to stand on equal grounds, don't you see? Friend versus friend. Not baron versus gamine."

Marius was about to object, but to his credit he gave Courfeyrac's words some consideration and thought better of it. He nodded softly, a frown appearing on his forehead.

"I… see", he said thoughtfully, chewing on his bottom lip. The habit reminded Courfeyrac somewhat of a boy.

"All right", he brought the conversation back on track. "So you came to Cosette after that conversation. And then?"

"I tried to talk to her about it", Marius confessed. "She is so bright and radiant… I hoped she would soothe me; help me see things more clearly. But then…"

Courfeyrac patiently waited for him to find his words, his gaze wandering through the room over to Lamarin, who was still working in concentration or at least pretending to do so.

"Then she just asked questions. Strange questions. She… I would have thought, being brought up as innocently as she is, that she would see things the same way I did… that she would tell me what was right and wrong."

"But she didn't", Courfeyrac guessed drily. Marius shook his head violently.

"No. Not at all. She kept saying the strangest things. That she was no angel, that she was not what I saw in her. She… in the end she threw me out and I do not know how things could have turned out so bad, all of a sudden."

"Have you asked her what she meant?" Courfeyrac was almost sure that he knew the answer, and Marius answered fiercely.

"I tried to reassure her, to give her a shoulder to lean on. She seemed so unsettled, but she did not want this help. She… just kept saying she was no angel, and…" he broke off and from his deep breaths Courfeyrac could guess that Marius was fighting for composure.

For a moment, he wondered what he should say in answer. While lacking the full picture, Marius account of the events had given him a good idea on what had actually transpired, and where the problem lay. He was, on the other hand, not quite sure that Marius would be willing to receive that bit of advice.

Not even counting the fact that the whole Adelaide disaster had him ill equipped to give romantic counsel on any sort.

And yet, Courfeyrac at least knew about human nature, and Marius had dug himself a hole deep enough that he would barely find out of it given a map.

So he settled for the middle path of cautious honesty.

"This is difficult, given the fact that I have never met this paragon of a woman that you call your own. However, I think you may be right in one thing… she is not quite what you thought she were."

Marius sighed.

"This is what I feared", he said, but Courfeyrac cut this train of thought and continued.

"That does not mean, however, that you were wrong. Can one person not be both? What you have thought of her may be the truth, albeit, perhaps not the whole truth." He attempted at a smile. "We are human beings, Pontmercy, we are complex in our ways. And so it seems your Cosette is not only the spotless angel you thought her to be. I agree, there may be some shadow on her spirit. But that does not mean that her brightness is not true."

Courfeyrac turned to Marius to look at him more closely, as if to put more emphasis on the message he was trying to convey.

"Maybe you just need to find out?"

Marius stared at him.

"Need to find out what?"

"What is ailing her. Until now, you have seen her only through your own eyes. Perhaps it is time to talk to her. To truly talk to her."

"We have spoken of so many things", Marius contradicted, shaking his head.

"You have spoken of all, and yet of nothing, if you'll forgive me for saying so", Courfeyrac corrected softly. "Each of you has seen what he wanted, and every word only served to confirm what you thought. But that has brought you to an impasse, and now neither of you can deny that there is something behind the mask."

Marius ran a hand through his hair.

"I don't know…", he said, hesitatingly.

"Neither do I", Courfeyrac answered. "I am only attempting at guesswork, but, my friend, knowing you, it cannot harm to try and learn more about her and her thoughts – if this is still what you want."

"I don't know…", Marius repeated. "It seems so… wrong. If it is love, should there not be blind understanding?"

Now, it was impossible for Courfeyrac to fully suppress his laughter and he chuckled with mirth.

"You , my friend, have read far too much of whatever Jehan may have recommended to you. I may be no expert on the manner, but everything I have seen is leading me to believe that such a thing as blind understanding is hard and rare to come by – and probably belonging more to the realm of angels than men. The rest of us… have to resort to different means."

"Oh…" Marius sounded disappointed, but as Courfeyrac looked at him he could see that the message had at least arrived and he was considering what he had said. "That's… unexpected", Marius continued. "Although I suppose I should have thought so. You seem so much surer in these things than I am." He shrugged. "I wonder how it could happen that you had such a falling out with Adelaide."

Courfeyrac was glad that he had refrained from taking another sip of coffee – he was not sure if he would have been able to keep from spitting it out again at that comment. If Marius had applied the same kind of tact when talking to Cosette, it was a small miracle that she had taken as long as she had before she had thrown him out.

But this was Marius. His friend. He should not be surprised.

Yet, the comment hurt in an unexpected way and Courfeyrac only badly dismissed it with stale laughter.

"Ah, my friend, but that is a completely different matter. A woman like Adelaide… there is nothing docile about her. You cannot tame a lion as you can tame a kitten, and I fear I have gotten myself thoroughly scratched."

Marius frowned, but did not comment on this, too deeply in thought, probably, about himself and Cosette.

Courfeyrac almost breathed a sigh of relief.

He really was not keen on discussing the matter any further.