A/N: I am so, so sorry. But first I was on holiday, and then after the last chapter I figured I had to find a better way to organize all the information for this fic since the errors are taking over... so now I have a OneNote file with all the names and occurencies and all that, and I hope I'm improving.

Sorry you had to wait for so long...

Chapter 57: Blind spots

Well, I've found that life is, in general, much easier if I forget most of the things that happen to me.

"Eponine."

He radiated displeasure. Leaning against the windowsill in the back part of the window – a posture that was becoming familiar to her very quickly – arms crossed before him, blonde hair still moist and hanging in slightly bedraggled locks, it was difficult to place what exactly gave that impression.

Although, granted, she would not have needed to see him to know he wouldn't like what she had said. Some things in life were predictable enough.

Yet, she preferred to play at stupidity. She knew she would not appreciate what he was about to say – but to lash out at him for something he had not even said yet seemed inappropriate.

"Yes?" she therefore asked, deceptively calm, turning around at the doorstep.

But he surprised her once again.

"You know what you are doing." It did not even sound like a question, more a statement requiring a mild confirmation. His body language was clear enough, and yet his words refused to follow.

No quarrel then, she thought and found that even though there had been the slight wish to lash out at him, she preferred it that way. The mixture was strange; the traces of care in his body, acceptance in his voice. She wondered if he was doing it deliberately.

And rewarded him with her own brand of honesty.

"I'm out of alternative ideas, I guess."

He raised both brows in a silent question, and she continued, almost surprised at herself.

"I need to find someone. And – although you handled things great today – I'm sure I won't find him if I take you with me."

His lips twitched slightly.

"Perhaps I should not have washed out the dye just yet."

She was about to answer, to remind him, that while he then might not look like Enjolras, he still would look like a stranger, and that would be more than enough to chase away Montparnasse, when she recognized the dry tone and responded with a laugh instead.

"It suited you", she answered instead. "A whole new perspective."

He shrugged.

"I hope you will not be offended at the fact that I prefer to remain myself, unless it is completely unavoidable. I understand the necessity, but I will not mourn its passing."

Éponine was not surprised and nodded.

"Yes", she said softly. "I imagine deception would come hard to you."

"Not a point of regret", Enjolras gave back, almost coolly. "And getting back to the original point of discussion, I trust I do not have to point out the disadvantages to you. Night has fallen. The city is uneasy. And there is the incident… of the day before yesterday."

It was all she could do not to take a deep breath at this. She was used to wandering the streets, yes, but to her disquiet she had found that her run-in with the assassin that had also targeted Enjolras and his friends had left her more rattled than she would have liked. When she roamed, she tried to push aside this memory, the slight, spidery feeling of phantom fingers running up her spine, and it had worked well so far. Éponine was skilled in the art of avoidance.

Enjolras, voicing it clearly called back old demons, and Éponine was almost sure that he had done it deliberately. A plea, an argument, a quarrel could not have swayed her, but this simple mention was not as easily dismissed as that.

Raising her head to look at him she understood clearly that he had already seen her discomfort, and Éponine decided to give him the truth.

"True", she said. "I… well. Now I'm warned, at least."

Again, the brow suggested doubt, maybe irony. No words necessary. Eponine felt cornered.

"Listen"; she continued. "I think I have to go. Someone has to, and I'm the only one who can. It's just something I need to do."

"You can't say more." Again, this was not really a question, and Eponine almost would not have responded at all. But he could wait, and finally, she tired of the silence.

"No", she said. "Better not, for now. Maybe later."

He nodded, and again, his lips twitched, almost a smile but not quite.

"I guess I cannot blame you for still walking in two worlds, seen as it was the other world that may well prove to be a saving grace to us. Still…"

He shuffled around slightly, changing his weight against the window seat. Uneasy, Éponine thought, not without surprise.

"Sorry", she said, surprising herself as well as him. In the twilight, she heard him sigh and saw him run a hand through his damp coils, pushing them out of his eyes only to have them fall back again.

"If I gave you a pistol", Enjolras asked, voice carefully neutral, "would you know how to operate it?"

The question brought back memories unbidden. A day in a cellar, Montparnasse's eyes glowing as he showed her the booty of the day – a case with two valuable pistols and some powder. Him taking her out to the carrières to try the weapons, the shots ringing hollowly through the abandoned nooks and caverns. A kiss, tasting of powder, and power, and danger. Worry. Fear. The feeling of wrongness.

She shook her head to chase the memories away.

"I don't have a very good history on returning things I borrowed from you", she evaded the question and to her surprise found herself being faced with a soft, huffing laugh from him.

"So yes", he answered and turned towards the room, crouching down and moving aside a bit of carpet to reach the floorboards below. For a moment, Éponine wondered if she should be surprised at the trust he was showing her – the knowledge of a secret compartment in this apartment, whispered into the wrong ears, would land him in jail without the slightest question.

And yet, he removed the cover of the hiding place without hesitation.

"I thought we had agreed that each of us has a different kind of resource at his disposal, and that for success of our venture, we will tap into these resources as we see fit, knowing that we have a common goal. I tapped into your resources heavily today. Now you may rely on mine." He retrieved a pistol, not unlike those that Montparnasse had stolen, fairly small and relatively easy to hide. "If it is any consolation", he continued, "I am well aware that you are our link to the safe haven we had. Giving you the pistol, you may think of as an act to ensure your safety and our link to Cortez." He stepped towards her, with deliberate, slow steps, wiping the pistol absent-mindedly with his sleeve. "Or you can think of it as the concern of a…", he hesitated only for the slightest moments, "… fellow citizen. A… comrade."

Éponine pondered this for a moment. She hated to be in his debt, but he was right. There was plenty of debt to go around, and unlike in the underworld, he and his friends did not seem the kind to assemble lists. And the encounter with their enemy had affected her more than she would have thought. Walking through the shadows of the streets, she would feel better if she at least could delude herself into having a means of defense.

She placed her fingers onto the cold metal he was holding out to her. It was soothing.

"All right", she said. "All right."

Enjolras nodded and to her surprise placed the fingers of his free hand on hers for a moment. The pressure was warm and strong, immediate and clear, and together with the feel of the pistol in her hand chased away the unbidden, fearful thoughts of the man that had held her imprisoned.

He released her after a moment, but the feeling lingered.

"Then go", he said. "Do what you have to do. And then come back here. Stay safe."

She wondered if expected her to promise that.

But again. She did not want to lie.

He never made it to the dwelling of the gypsies.

After finishing their discussion and exchange of information, Gavroche had decided they should split up to cover more ground and gather information more quickly. This was, Sylvain knew, of course against the advice that Gavroche's friends themselves were following – to never be alone and always walk in protection – but whatever protection there was to be had for a gamin lay in speed and his knowledge of the city anyhow, and so the rules that applied to students did not apply to them.

Sylvain had been charged with going to the gypsies in Saint Germain to try and find out why so many of them had left the city of late, and where this unexpected movement was leading to, and he had accepted without question. He knew the gypsies and found them mostly nice – some of them even shared some food now and then; and they knew how to play a few games very well – and he knew the task was important.

Sylvain enjoyed important tasks, especially if they led him away from Jacques.

Not that he did not like Jacques. They were like brothers, trusting one another blindly, relying on each other in rough times; but he was the younger brother, and this was what disturbed him slightly, seen as both would not even know their exact age to be sure that Jacques indeed was the elder.

His friend being what he was, Sylvain found it difficult to dispute this claim, but he also found it somewhat annoying. Jacques had taken the role of second in command to Gavroche with ease and without question.

Sylvain… well, remained Sylvain.

And hence, he enjoyed walking on his own.

The day was hot and stifling, and the bright sun of yesterday had hidden itself behind a set of diffuse clouds, looming and somewhat oppressive. There would be rain later, Sylvain decided and hoped he would make it to a safe place, or at least the elephant, in time.

He had just passed a row of fisher cottages and was turning left to get away from the Seine when he saw the shape stepping into his path, and he felt his breath leave him in a shocked, frightened huff.

"Hello Sylvain."

He took an involuntary step back. He knew the man, of course.

He had run errands for him. Occasionally been his eyes and ears. Answered his queries best as he could.

And, lately, betrayed him to the friends of Gavroche.

Staring at his one-time employer, Sylvain wondered if he already knew that last but. He had always shown the uncanny ability of being well-informed. If it was so, then his eyes betrayed nothing. The smile was ever the same. But of course, Sylvain had been on the streets long enough to know that this might mean nothing at all.

Carefully, the boy took another step back. The alley seemed narrow, stifling and slim.

"Hello…", he said, cautiously, feeling himself vibrate with tension.

How could he have forgotten about this man? How could he not have imagined that once he was alone he would be contacted again, now, that the plan he had been apparently harbouring was rolling into motion? Of course, they had always met on the basis of appointments, at night or in daylight, and previously agreed places. But maybe he should have expected it none the less.

Looking at it this way, this meeting was extremely bad news. It was a breaking of rules – and the breaking of rules and habits where there had been some before never bode well in Sylvain's experience. He decided to operate on the assumption that the man knew. And was here to demand the price of betrayal.

He felt an icy trail of fear running down his back and fought for composure.

"I haven't seen you in a while, Sylvain", the man who never had a name said, and his way of approaching would have been casual, had the boy not known so much better. There were no such things as coincidences in his world, he had come to accept that very quickly. So he had been right.

His eyes darted around. The alley was deserted. He was on his own.

"I…", he said, stalling, "… was busy."

The man smiled. He was young still, and while fairly unremarkable his face did carry a certain charm. There were times where Sylvain had fancied him to be his older brother, a companion, severe, but well-meaning in the end.

He wondered how he could have deluded himself so.

"I can see that", the man who was not an ally of his any more nodded, and the smile vanished from his face as if it had been wiped away with a careless stroke of a pen.

And Sylvain turned to run.

Behind him, there was shouting and tumbling, he heard something scattering and the motion of quick steps, but he did not look back. What chances he had lay in speed and in diving into the crowd before the man could catch him, but a crowd was not easy to come by.

The fisher cottages were deserted at this time of day – the fishers asleep, their wives out selling the day's purchase – and there was nothing on the street except for him and the shouts and steps behind him.

Heart pounding, Sylvain turned along the Seine, quickly calculating while he speeded where it would be best to go. Following along the river to the next bridge was promising – bridges were always well populated during this time and Sylvain doubted that anyone would attack him in broad daylight in a crowd – but the bridge was far away and the steps were coming closer.

Turning right again on the hope to reach more crowded areas was another possibility, but Sylvain was not as familiar with the area as with others, and he was not sure if he could find the best way.

Still, twists and turns of streets gave a better chance at outrunning the grown-up, who certainly had longer legs and apparently fiendish stamina.

Two houses later, Sylvain abruptly swayed to the right and vanished between the walls of the fisher cabins. The man followed.

He was faster and gaining ground, and Sylvain, lungs burning, tears stinging in his eyes, wondered if it would be any help to shout. Gavroche had told them that the act of a helpless boy did bring help in some quarters, and it was a technique Sylvain was not bad at, but somehow he doubted that this was the right neighborhood.

Pity with strangers was a rare thing among the poor.

And yet, as he felt the man closing in further, he found he had no choice, and he was still screaming, shouting for help, as he felt his arms seized and turned onto his back.

"Be quiet", a voice hissed, holding him in an iron grip as he twisted, trying to wiggle free. "For god's sake shut up or he'll have both our heads!"

That, finally, managed to cut through Sylvain's panic, and he stilled, trying to analyze the situation. He had been caught. But he was alive still. And the voice… the voice was nothing like the man's. Deeper. Rough. Much more distinctive and recognizeable, a voice one would not so easily forget.

He risked a peek over his shoulder.

It was not his former ally that had caught up with him. Instead, he was faced with a man, probably of the same age, but dark where the other was light, black, straight, somewhat dirty hair hanging into his eyes. The beginnings of a beard were forming on his face, less reminiscent of a fashionable style, and more of a man a razor short, but the most remarkable thing on his face was a set of clear, pale blue eyes, somewhat at odds with the tanned skin and black coloring. The foreigner allowed Sylvain to muster him for a moment, before he raised a brow, a slightly sardonic smile on his lips.

"If I release you now", he began, "will you still do me the favor of a conversation?"

Despite the bedraggled appearance, Sylvain thought, he spoke like one of Gavroche's friends. After a moment's consideration, the gamin nodded.

"All right."

He was released immediately and turned around to get a better view at the man.

He was small, somewhat sturdy, not exactly well-fed, but certainly well-trained.

"Who are you?" Sylvain asked, frowning, while the man darted around a quick look, apparently nervous himself. He took a moment to answer, and finally, with a shrug, gave a name.

"Joseph", he said. "My name is Joseph Sicar. From what I guessed, you may have heard of me."

A few hours later, a few streets away, just like that, the night swallowed her again.

The streets of Paris were unchanged, of course, but Eponine, walking through the darkness, realized that she indeed was not. She had donned the cloak of the gamine again, with ease and skill, but she found no joy, no comfort in it.

Unlike her brother she had never liked roaming the streets. But like him she had known her worth and had found a certain satisfaction in that knowledge.

Now, it felt like a necessity, not an achievement.

Montparnasse, if he did not want to be found, was a remarkably elusive being. Eponine spent the better part of two hours slipping through alleys, asking questions and checking on meeting places and hideouts, but not to much avail. While she was recognized – and in fact greeted – by a few people that she had had dealings with, her accomplice of so many years remained under cover.

Éponine did not like the thought at all. Either he could not be found because he was in trouble, or he did not want to be found – which probably meant that he had reason not to want to talk to her at the moment. There were few reasons for this, and the most prominent one would be that he was not willing to provide the answer she would request.

Why had he sent her to this tavern the exact evening that the Corinthe had been targeted by the assassins?

Why and how had he vanished from the prison a few days before – and unscathed?

How could he have found her while she was imprisoned by the most unsettling of assassins, who certainly would have killed her if Montparnasse hadn't appeared?

And why was he now evading her?

The obvious answer to all of these questions was that Montparnasse knew more about the nature and dealings of the assassins than he should. He knew her well, and even without the last point of his absence, he must have suspected she would come to this conclusion sooner or later.

Éponine did not exactly blame him for not wanting to answer her.

And yet, this suspicion put her into a very uncomfortably position. If her thoughts were right, then Montparnasse had, by faking to call the favor she owed him, saved her life yet again.

Which meant that instead of being even with him, she was further indebted to him than ever before. And this was something to be considered in all her future dealings.

They had been allies for a long time, but now, by way of decisions they made on their own, they had found themselves on different sides of a battle that was raging under the surface of Paris, and this, Éponine thought, was a frightening thing.

She had always considered the assassins to be a third party, unrelated to either her or the students' friends, but of course that could not have been true. Given the way the assassins moved in the city, they must have had a good knowledge of both the above and the underworld.

Éponine felt almost annoyed at how naïve she had been.

Lost in thoughts she strolled through the city, having all but given up on finding her friend.

That was why she was so easily surprised.

The punch in her stomach winded her and she felt her knees buckling while she was gasping for breath. Stars danced in front of her eyes and for a few heartbeats all she could do was fight down pain and shock, before she was even able to assess her surroundings.

She opened her eyes just in time to see the slap approaching that hit her squarely in the face.

Still, blinking away tears, she recognized the face before her.

Her father.

And remembered with a flash of shock that she had forgotten something.

'Let's meet here at dusk tomorrow' her father had said as she had left him in the silver hall, and that was two days and a night ago. With Montparnasse's errand and the incident at the Corinthe, she had completely forgotten about that promise.

For a moment, she could almost understand his anger.

Since they had been to Paris, since the necessity of everyone fending for themselves as well as the family, Azelma and Eponine had been allowed to roam the streets of Paris more or less on their own. But, be it to be able to include them in his schemes, or be it out of a small remnant of fatherly concern, Thénardier had always insisted on meeting places, and on appointments to be kept. This, if nothing else, had still been a constant, and being late without reason was never something well received.

Being late by more than a day certainly merited some displeasure. Of course, Éponine could have gone without the show of a hard hand from her father. But that, at least, was something she had gotten used to.

Not, that her father would beat her regularly. From a neutral point of view – which was difficult to achieve of course, if one was the one taking the hit – he only hit her with reason: at a misfortune, a deficiency, a game gone wrong – and even then only in first impulse.

When she was smaller, she had found all sorts of excuses, from his bitterness to the strain on them all to the same hopelessness that used to threaten to overwhelm her as well, and that had her – at times – even screaming at Azelma, who certainly did not deserve it.

Some time ago, her little sister, sadness in her eyes, had told her that there was a lot of her father in her. Eponine had hated her for a moment, and later found that there was some measure of truth in the statement.

She blinked away tears and tried to focus on her father, who was glaring at her, hand raised to give a second slap following the first. But for the moment, he resorted to shouting.

"Where have you been?" he asked, after having showered her in a set of the most ugly and coarse descriptions in his repertoire. "Deserting your father like that!"

Éponine was not sure what she should say. Knowing her father, he had not come alone, so she would have to temper her opposition. He seldom dared confrontations on his own.

"I'm sorry", she said, already suspecting it would not appease him. She was right.

"Sorry", he snarled, "sorry she says like an insolent child?" He tried to land another slap onto her other cheek, but this time Éponine was prepared and ducked with the experience of many years. His eyes flashed quickly in displeasure, but he refrained from another blow, which confirmed Éponine's suspicion that they were not alone.

"There's not much I can say. I tried, but something came up."

"Something came up more important than to meet your father?" he asked nastily. "That must have been quite something indeed."

No new attempt at violence. Eponine counted that cautiously as a good sign.

"I was running an errand which took longer than I thought."

"An errand." Thenardier eyed her, half still furious, half calculating. "Must have been a costly errand then to forget your father."

There was a demand behind that statement. If there was one thing that could appease her father, it was money, but unfortunately, she had left most of her money with the good dress in Enjolras' apartment. It was a pity. Handing over the imaginary savings of the errand would probably have been able to solve the issue.

As it were, she had to think of something else.

"A favor", she said.

This time the blow came unexpected. Her cheek stung.

"You've been stupid enough to land yourself in another debt? You're your mother's daughter indeed. Not good for anything then."

Éponine wondered for a moment if she should claim that it was an errand that was payback for getting her father out of prison, but she was not sure she would be able to maintain that lie to the end, and then it would not help her any more.

"My business", she answered therefore curtly. After the first shock waned, annoyance had begun to set in despite herself. She could not help the question what her new friends would think of this situation, this behavior, this discussion, and somehow she felt in equal measures angry and sad.

But she also realized that she never liked to be bullied. And now, slowly, maybe she would not need to any more.

For a brief moment in time, she finally understood what it meant to be Gavroche. But of course, her father would have none of that.

"You are my daughter", he sneered. "Everything you do is my business."

Eponine held his gaze and was surprised how liberating it felt to say "No."

"Ungrateful slut", he yelled, and again she was showered in curses and reprimands, in reminders of how he had sacrificed everything, everything for his daughters, and how now both of them would leave them without a thought or a moment of gratitude, and how he would not have this and make them pay. He raised his hand for another slap again, but this time, Éponine reacted on instinct, distracted by something he said.

Her arm met his as it raced towards her face and beat it aside before it could do any harm.

For a moment, Thénardier stared at her in shock. And Éponine used the opportunity for the question on her mind.

"Both your daughters?" she asked, and he snorted in disdain.

"Don't pretend you don't know. Azelma has been stupid and useless, God alone knows, but she has at least until now never failed to come back. That is, until today. I guess I have you to thank for that."

Éponine frowned.

"No."

"Liar", Thenardier snarled. "A girl that raises her hand against her own father. Who would believe anything. Liar. Where is she hiding?"

"It was not me", Éponine said, with more vehemence. Worry gripped her like cold iron. Azelma had been there when Montparnasse had freed her from captivity. Had the assassin's focus switched?

She had been with Montparnasse. Who was unaccounted for as well.

Éponine felt a shiver running down her spine.

"Have you looked for her?"

Thenardier laughed.

"This is Paris. Are you daft?"

"You should have. You know where she usually is. You should have asked around." Worry made Éponine furious, and she lashed out at her father without thinking. "She's your daughter. You should have tried to find her instead of beating me up."

"Don't tell me what to do", Thénardier snarled. "I mind my own business."

"Well", Éponine answered coldly. "Then keep your nose out of mine."

She turned on her heel, and whether it was the shame in front of the goons he hired, her own determination that towered his, or maybe even a remnant of fatherly concern, Thénardier let her go.

Just like that.

She was so quiet.

So pale, so quiet, and almost vanishing between the thick cushions.

He hardly ever saw her breathing, even though he anxiously watched for every sign of her being alive, and so he had taken to placing his hand on the covers in front of her face in the end.

The soft stream of air caressing his fingers was a calming, soothing thing.

There would be fever, they had said, and then it would show if her body was strong enough to battle the wounds she had received. Her body was still working, the sisters had said, which pointed to a containable amount of damage to her vital system, but Jehan had understood well that this was hope, not knowledge, and that now Azelma was on her own.

Strong enough…

Right now, in this bed, she looked frail enough to be snapped, as easily as a twig, and the mere thought sent a wave of fear down Jehan's spine that drowned out any pain he might have still felt from his own injuries.

Love, he thought, was a strange thing. It came like a flash, without question or explanation. He had witnessed it often, and often indulged in it, found heaven and lost it again. He had loved beauty and loved love, and realized that Azelma was neither.

She was not beautiful – she was a small waif of a girl, spindly, eyes too large in a sunken-in face. Hunger and neglect had prevented her from turning into a woman of the kind that Jehan knew, and there was nothing about her, objectively speaking, that could be called even remotely tempting.

Yet, the heart did not ask.

"Maybe you're a fairy", he whispered to the silent room, to the sleeping girl. "Slipped through the cracks of the world to stumble into ours. Maybe you come from the world of strange spells and uncounted wonders, with magic to call your own." He smiled to himself. "Maybe it is a spell of yours, or maybe you have decided to watch over me the way a fairy decides; on a whim and lightly, like a leaf falling from a tree. Elf child…", he whispered and carefully ran his hand through the hair at her temples. "… with all this magic in you, there is no way you would die, is there? Fairies are immortal, they say, timeless and free. You will not be conquered by a simple knife, will you?"

She did not answer, gone to far into her dreams to listen.

And yet, the sweat pearls on her face almost seemed like fairy dust.