A/N: I need a life. I need a new job. I need ... well, I guess, your patience and support. I am still here, and still writing. And going under water in real life. Bear with me, I'm fighting tooth and nail to be quicker...

Thanks to judybear for corrections

Chapter 66: Words like fire, thoughts like storm

The past tempts us, the present confuses us, and the future frightens us. And our lives slip away, moment by moment, lost in that vast terrible in-between. But there is still time to seize that one last, fragile moment. To choose something better, to make a difference, as you say. And I intend to do just that.

He woke with the feeling of having slept too long, again feeling a brief surge of panic, the worry of oversleeping deeply ingrained into his being, workingman that he was. His limbs were heavy and his thoughts returned only slowly to wakefulness, but when he started to regain his senses he remembered, that his worry had been absolutely in vain.

There was no work today. Whatever story Courfeyrac had invented – and whatever Feuilly would do to repay him for this favor – there was no work for him until he was recovered, and until then, he was located in the apartment of Louise, Elodie and Adelaide.

He had been woken by the sun which stood high in the sky and burned its way through the milky windows, more brightly than it ever would in his own lodgings that were located in a back court that hardly ever was fully illuminated even at solstice.

Carefully he tested his limbs – heavy but not painful – and turned his head from side to side, waiting for the nausea that had accompanied that movement during the last day.

There were remnants of it, but with relief Feuilly realized that he might be getting better. Combeferre's assessment that a concussion needed rest and calm and little else seemed not to have been too far off the mark, at least.

The bed creaked in protest when he started to move, an angry, queasy sound, and apparently this alerted the inhabitants of the apartment. It was only a few moments later when the door to the small room was opened and blond, twittery Louise stepped through with a smile.

"Ah, you're awake", she mentioned the obvious and approached the bed with something that was almost enthusiasm. "Hungry? Thirsty?"

Feuilly frowned and took a moment to listen to the signals of his body. He felt no appetitite, but definitely something to eat would not go amiss. Yesterday, eating had been out of the question – nausea had been too prominent to even think of it – but today, the thought of food at least did not call forth revulsion. And to think of something to drink had a rather heavenly feel to it.

"Some…", he confessed, and Louise laughed, clapping her hands together.

"That's what we hoped. Your doctor friend said that would mean you're getting better. I'll be right back then."

She hurried out of the room and the thanks he had wanted to utter died on Feuilly's lips as the door closed again behind her.

He tried to remedy the situation when a few moments later – he had heard a discussion from the other room, but had not been able to make out words – Louise came back into the room, carrying a bowl and a cup of tea.

"I would like to thank you again for your support", he began. "I appreciate immensely what you have done for me. If there is any way I can repay you…"

"Oh, nonsense", Louise rejected his words with a wave of her hand. "Our pleasure, really. As Adelaide would probably say we're all on the same side in the end. We could help, we did. What sort of people would we be after what happened in the Corinthe to leave you out in the streets? And …", there was a twinkle in her eye as she bowed down a bit closer to him, as if entrusting him with a secret, "anyway this gives me more of an excuse to spend the night with Francois."

She placed the bowl into his hands and the tea on a tiny cupboard so that he could reach it.

"Now eat up", she advised. "And then there may be a treat for you."

He wanted to ask what she meant, but she had left the room already, a spring in her step, and Feuilly decided that the effort of keeping up with Louise might prove more than what he was willing to occupy himself with at the moment.

Breakfast turned out to be a bowl of grits with a few early berries tossed in and despite the fact that it had probably been cooked in the early morning, it was still warm. He ate with an appetite that surprised himself – although in retrospective it was not quite as surprising as that.

The meal heartened his spirits and seemed to replenish some of his forces, so when Louise came back to fulfil the nondescript promise she had given him, he was almost eager for something to happen. He could only guess what must have happened in the city while he was sleeping, and he did not like to feel out of phase with his friends during a critical time such as this.

He wished one of them would step by to see him, to give him the news and connect him again with the beating heart of Paris. He could only imagine how hectic and exciting times were at the moment and felt horrific and abandoning his friends.

"Feeling up to a little walk of a few steps?" Louise looked smug and excited, her hands in her hips almost spoke of a challenge. "It's getting late."

"Late for what?" he inquired, slowly turning his sitting position so that he would be able to place his feet on the floor.

"The spectacle", Louise chuckled and watched his efforts impatiently. "So. All well?"

"I think so", he answered, when the motion prompted slight dizziness, but no nausea. "I hope so."

He took heart and stood, the room spinning slightly for just a moment, before he found his footing again. Louise, watching, offered her arm for support.

"Splendid."

She led him out of the room and into the main chamber of the apartment, where the table was littered with mountains of cloth of various colors. Elodie, her mouth full of needles and in the process of stitching together a seam, gave him a nod and a smile, charm flowing easily. Adelaide, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.

Louise led him to one of the windows going out to Rue de la Chanvrerie. Her excitement was infectous, but that was not even necessary. The sight in itself was rousing enough.

Feuilly did not remember well where the house was located that they had brought him to, but now he realized that it was really almost across from the place that once was the Corinthe; only two houses to the left and slightly following a bend that the road made in this direction. The window, as he now realized, had suffered from the explosion as well, a thick crack in the blind glass seemed fresh enough. Now, in summer, with the window open anyway, this was of no big impact, but Feuilly hoped they would be able to repair it before the winter.

Looking out of the window, he saw that a small crowd had gathered around the ruin of the Corinthe, and the source of the gathering was easily spotted.

Atop the pile of rubble that had once been the wine shop stood Enjolras, golden hair gleaming in the midday sun. The sight was almost achingly familiar, his manner of waiting for enough attention to gather that his speech would be worthwhile, and of course he was successful in this, because he was Enjolras and there was nothing that came more natural to him than this.

Somewhere further down on the pile, he saw Éponine, sitting on an abandoned rock. Gavroche leaned against her legs looking tired.

"See?" Louise at his side propped her elbows on the windowsill to peek past him, and on his other side he felt Elodie shuffling closer, framing him from the other side. "A spectacle. Right about to begin."

He was tense. They all were.

Eponine was not even sure why she had accompanied Enjolras to the Corinthe, but there had been nothing else to do that sounded more appealing. And there was something else.

Something about the way he had spoken about the Corinthe and the speech he intended to give there had her worried inexplicably. Of course, Éponine had not forgotten their half-conversation in the dark in front of Cortez' apartment, and as far as this sort of injuries went, in Éponine's experience they did not usually heal quickly.

The closer they had finally gotten to the site, the stonier his composure had become. Enjolras was a man of nuances, of tiny shifts and differences, and if pressed, Éponine would not have been able to say what it was that told her of his tension. But she had learned to trust her instincts.

And her instincts told her that he should not be alone.

The crowd was slowly gathering. The image of the beautiful young man alone was enough to attract attention, and at this obvious site of violence all the more so. Even some of the windows of the surrounding houses had opened, and Éponine let her gaze wander over the many different faces.

She was glad that the eyes were set on Enjolras, while gamin and gamine remained practically unseen. He did not seem to mind the attention, but she would have certainly felt uncomfortable in his place.

"Look!" Her little brother had spied it before she did, and both her and Enjolras' gazes went to follow the pointing finger of Gavroche that directed their attention to a house just a little down the road.

Out of the corner of her eye, Éponine saw a hint of a smile creeping onto Enjolras' features, some of the tension seeping out of his posture with a deep breath.

"Feuilly", he said, and indeed, she saw the fan maker propped on the windowsill, looking over to them. Enjolras gave a greeting, only a slight wave of his hand, and yet all of a sudden their place on the ruins of the Corinthe did not seem as lonely as it had before.

Eponine turned her gaze fully to Enjolras, and he nodded, a deep breath wandering through his body as he visibly steeled himself.

"All right", he said, pressing together his lips in determination. "Then lets begin."

"My friends, let me tell you a story."

The man was vaguely familiar, and this was why Cosette had stopped, on place Saint Michel, right in front of the Café, which turned out to go by the name of "Café Musain", almost certainly the normal haunt of Marius and his friends.

He had stepped on a barrel that was placed next to the arcades, belonging to one of the shops that were lining the place; and she was almost sure to have seen him with Marius before, during her outings in th Jardin du Luxembourg.

So she stayed and listened what he had to say.

He had a jovial manner about him, a simple friendliness that went out to the crowd that had assembled. He was not beautiful, but charming, dark, short hair and a lean figure, lively eyes and a face that mirrored his every thought.

It was easy to follow his tale of a young mathematician, a bright mind and a good man. A theoretician and a republican. An honest man full of ideals and dreams, both in the abstract world of numbers and the very real world of politics. A decent man, young and proud.

A young life extinguished long before his prime.

Cosette wondered if the two men – the one dead and the one alive, giving the speech – had been friends in life, for so vivid was the tale, so true the sorrow. So genuine the sadness at the life lost.

"Evariste Galois", the man repeated, on his barrel, "is dead. Murdered by gunshot at the break of dawn. A duel? That is what they say."

The crowd took up a murmur, unrest spreading through those assembled. Cosette was susceptible enough to the moods around her, felt the unease like a wave rolling through the place. Suddenly, a part of her understood what her father had meant with his words – that the city was dangerous, a powder keg, and no place for a girl like herself.

But Cosette had left the apartment with a purpose. She had decided to leave her shelter that had turned into a prison and with freedom came a price. Folding her arms in front of her in an unconscious, protective gesture, she continued to listen.

"Coincidence? That is what they say." The man shook his short, dark locks with a dismissive snort. "And yet, all of us know what has happened yesterday. The whole city knows what happened yesterday." His voice was rising slowly, anger and ferocity finding its way into his speech. "An assembly of friends. Blown to pieces with deliberate and ill intent."

Cosette frowned. She had heard – in passing – how Touissant and her father had discussed something about an explosion, but she had never connected it with Marius or his friends. Now, however, she stood corrected. And a deep, nagging fear gripped her that maybe, just maybe, there would be no possibility for reconciliation.

"So this morning", the man on the barrel continued, "a republican was killed by coincidence in a duel. Coincidentially a day and a half after an assembly was torn to pieces, leaving many more dead. An assembly where people spoke their mind. Words. Nothing more." He shook his head, ran his hands through his hair, before he spread out his arms, wide and demanding.

"Don't you see what's happening?" he shouted towards the crowd. "They are picking us out, one by one." He counted it on his fingers. "Anyone who raises his voice, anyone who dares to object, anyone who dares to talk to anyone that has ever raised suspicion…"

He made a cutting movement with his hand, brutal and abrupt.

"Dead."

He let that linger for a moment, before he took a deep breath and raised himself to full height. A smile appeared on his features, barely perceptible, cocky and sure.

"But let me tell you something, my friends", he said. "I'm not afraid. And neither should you be. For they are few. And we are many. And that is what counts in the end."

A snort next to her fell together with a growing unrest in the crowd, and Cosette turned to find herself standing next to a dark skinned woman, carrying a basket filled with cloth on her arm and a perpetual frown on her face. Her gaze was fixed on the man on the barrel, before she turned away with a shake of her head and found Cosette watching her before she could avert her gaze. A black brow over dark, strong eyes rose in something close to irony. She held the moment for a passing breath, but so did Cosette, and finally it was the stranger who broke the silence.

"Quite full of himself he is, don't you think?" She sounded somewhat dismissive, and yet something about her voice did not ring quite true. Cosette thought about this for a moment.

"I am not sure", she answered. "I haven't really thought about that."

The dark skinned woman shook her head and huffed a laugh.

"Trust me. I know."

Cosette, registering what she had said, decided to take her chances.

"So you know him?" she asked, hoping that she would have finally found someone who could bring her towards the whereabouts of Marius. The woman frowned in suspicion, measuring up and down the figure of Cosette, bringing her basket in front of her as if looking for a kind of protection.

"Who wants to know?" she asked. She had been somewhat distant and sardonic before, but now there was something forbidding about her, a somber serenity that seemed unfamiliar to Cosette. She was a beauty in her own right, with her dark eyes and high-cheeked features, broad nose and strong lips, tall, slender and graceful as a cat even in the way she cocked her head in a challenging movement.

And she was deeply distrustful. Cosette, none the less, decided for openness.

"I'm Cosette. I… I think I know that man up there", she continued, nodding towards the man who continued his speech undisturbed by the conversation of the two women. "I am looking for a friend of his."

"What sort of friend?" her opponent inquired and shifted the weight of the basket in her arms.

"Marius", Cosette answered honestly. "Marius Pontmercy, that is. Please, if…" she shook her head, "… if you are acquainted with the group… can you tell me if he was hurt in the incident with that explosion? Is he all right?"

The woman pursed her lips and seemed to ponder her words for a moment, before, with a quick, abrupt nod, she came to a decision.

"Last I saw him, which means yesterday, Pontmercy seemed to be much the same as ever. Not that I know him well."

Cosette took a deep breath, relief flooding her with immediate force.

"Thank you… That's good to hear. You… wouldn't know where he is?"

The woman shook her head.

"Right now, no. In an hour, I think you just have to follow the crowd."

Cosette let her gaze wander around. The assembly had grown more agitated, shouts and angry cries wavered over a murmur of discontent, and still, the man on the barrel was speaking.

"Where are they going?" she asked.

"To the burial of the two men that Courfeyrac paints in such vivid colors."

Courfeyrac. That was a name that was vaguely familiar to Cosette. Marius had mentioned him in passing, but with fondness, and now that she could place a face to the name, she understood why.

"Are you going there as well?" she asked, and the woman sighed, almost heavily.

"I am still considering. But I guess, all things taken together, I should. It…", she hesitated for a moment, "… would not be well to miss it."

Cosette frowned.

"Why?"

"Because things may happen. Because everything always gets worse. And for many more reasons that are, quite frankly, none of your business." She grabbed her basket resolutely, fingers clenching around the handle. "But it's not to be helped. Follow me, if you want. I think we will stumble upon Pontmercy sooner or later."

For a moment, Cosette wondered, if it was a good idea to attach herself to that shrewd, dry, somber woman, but she realized it was the best chance that she had had yet, and she was willing to take a little gamble. And so she nodded in response.

The woman turned back to the stage as if a matter had been resolved that now, that everything was clarified, required no more of her attention.

"Very well", she said. "By the way, I am Adelaide."

A brief widening of her lips in lieu of a smile.

A straightening of her back.

And that was all that Cosette got.

This world was inhabited by the strangest of creatures.

Standing on the shoulders of giants, he thought. Standing in a lake full of blood.

It sounded like something Jehan would say. Maybe, he thought, he was just too tired.

How could something that had been as easy as living or breathing just a week before have become so tremendously, incredibly hard?

His body remembered the movements, his lips remembered the words. But his heart… his heart was somewhere else.

His heart was under stone and wood.

His heart was with the terrifying moments when the light in Grantaire's eyes had been snuffed out like a candle, in the darkness of the burial ground that had been the ruins of the Corinthe.

On the road to the Corinthe, he had sorted his thoughts as he always did, composed his arguments, tempered fury and righteousness in a mix that was uniquely his. His speeches were a combination of planning and improvisation, a framework thought out in advance, to be fleshed out while he was facing the moment, going with the tide that would lead him on.

He had planned to unleash a storm, fire raining from the sky into the hearts of those that listened. He had planned to accuse and decry, to rage and burn and to lead a rebellious crowd towards the cemetery that would see the burials of Evaristide and Ramon.

Standing on the bones of the Corinthe, he found that the requiem for his friend was a quiet one. All his plans, his schemes, fled the moment his feet touched the site of his nightmare again, and the spirit of his friend was too close to ignore.

His voice was quiet, almost too quiet for the crowd assembled when he began.

"Let me tell you", he began, softly, "of a man."

It was Grantaire's eulogy, for all that he had intended to speak of Evariste and Ramon, the story of a life appreciated too late. And so he began with what little he knew of the man that had been a constant shadow on his side for so long, and because he was Enjolras, he neither mellowed his faults nor augmented his qualities, but stated the truth, the plain, open truth, and as he listened to himself speak, he realized he wished to have known the man whose image he was weaving.

He felt his ghost shaking his head softly, a sardonic smile teasing around his lips, but it was a sad ghost, as most ghosts were, and he could almost see the mock salute delivered with a tip of the wine mug, just outside his field of view.

They said that spirits lingered at the site of violent death, and for the first time in his life, Enjolras was almost prone to fall to this superstition.

Combeferre would be proud.

"Let me tell you", he continued, because there was nothing else to do, "of faith."

He leaned against a remaining pillar, reaching accusingly towards the skies, and the support was more than welcome.

"Let me tell you of a man who had placed enough faith in others to not leave enough for himself. Of a man, whose affiliations never wavered, who doubted everything except the people he trusted, and who was, at the heart of the doubt, the truest of them all."

A weakness, he would have said, because it was easy to scorn what one did not understand, and while Enjolras had a heart for stubbornness, he had not been able to follow the simple unquestioning devotion that Grantaire was able to exhibit.

It was true. He had placed so much trust in them, it had left him empty of a kind.

"Let me tell you", he continued after the verse had been sung, after he realized, how very alone he suddenly was without the man who would constantly confirm his convictions by countering them, "about love."

Man. Faith. Love. A holy trinity of another kind. Enjolras, for a moment, closed his eyes upon the familiar word.

"Love is a weakness", he began. "It turns our head from what has to be done towards our fellow man. It distorts the focus, distracts the eye, defies the purpose. Love defies reason, and love defies purpose. Love…", he continued, "is the enemy of revolution."

As he let the sentence hanging in the air for a moment, he realized how silent the street had become. It seemed as if the audience were holding their breaths, not to miss any of the words he was saying in that unusually quiet voice of his.

He closed his eyes and steeled himself for what he must say next.

"Love", he continued, almost having to force the words over his lips, "is a strength." He was not even sure when this revelation had hit him – inclinations of it maybe even already as he was lying in the darkness under the rabble of the Corinthe. But since then the thought had turned and shaped itself in its head to emerge now, in the hour of need, in a brightness and clarity that was almost painful.

"It defies reason and makes us believe what cannot be believed. It disregards doubt and does not allow hesitation. It is what it is."

He unfolded his arms, slowly adding gesture to his words as his speech became more animated.

"Love is what makes one man turn to another. Love is what makes a group out of a number of individuals. Love is what makes a republic instead of a reign of terror."

There was a little of a murmur in the crowd and he gave a small huff of a laugh, a gesture of relief against the tight ring that was forming itself around his chest, a sensation so alien and painful that he he had a feeling of drifting, of not being quite himself.

"Politics is a business of cold heart. It is dominated by ratio, by discussions of men wise and powerful. And this is why so many will tell you – yes, it is right that those of education and power shall lead, for they know how. They have read their greek philosophers and studied the workings of the senate of Rome. They have discussed and evaluated, shaped and formed. And yet…"

He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Standing here, at the ruins of our dreams, I know that this is only the smallest part of the truth. Here, here in the ruins of this house lies a testimony to what a republic, a society actually is. One man looking out for his brother. One hand grasping another in friendship and support. One thought, thought by many and shaped and shared. If we cannot have that, we cannot have a republic."

He took a deep breath and rallied his spirit to continue for the last, difficult words.

"We have to be not one mind, not one intent. Oh, we may quarrel and we may argue, we may disagree and we may fight. But at the heart of this is brotherhood, at the heart of this is mankind, at the heart of this, my friends, is France. A France born of one man, one woman, one child feeling akin to his fellows, disregarding his own safety for the other. Accepting sacrifice of oneself for the good of the many. Loving humanity, a fellow being so…", he felt his voice shaking and swallowed, rigorously forcing steadiness into his breath as his hands turned to fists, "… so deeply, that his well being is equal – no, higher – than our own. This, my friend, is the heart of the Republic."

He began to climb a bit higher on the pile and turned towards the crowd again.

"This, my friends, is what distinguishes us from them. We are not aiming for the welfare of the single person. We are not looking for a cold world of figures. We are aiming for a world of community, of heart as well as head, where the worthiness of every being is recognized in its own right. This, my friend, is the heritage of the Corinthe. And so, in death, they shall not be alone. Ramon Deleric died in the ruins of this building, and Evariste Galois died a lonely death at the break of dawn. They led us on, and we follow, out of love, out of fellowship, and because we are more than just a man, a woman, a child. What affects one, affects all. We, my friends, are the republic. And as such, we shall march."

The applause was nothing like what he had received before, not the raucous, excited chaos he was used to. No one thought to sing the Marseillaise, no cheering filled the air.

And yet, there was a veil of grim determination, of satisfaction even hanging in the air, and the energy around him was of a deeper, stronger, more resilient kind.

He let go of a breath and felt something within him give way, tension evaporating in a single moment, and he felt himself stumble, sudden weakness taking hold of his limbs.

He would not cry, he promised himself, but it seemed that he might fall, back into the depths of the buildings.

Ghosts were lonely creatures, they said. They long for life and companions.

Almost, it seemed as if the Corinthe, as if Grantaire was not quite willing to let go of him.

She was there out of nowhere, as if she had just grown from the unsteady floor below his feet. Her shoulder was close enough to lean on for just a second, almost unremarked by the crowd, and it was enough for him to regain his footing, her small, slim shape as solid as an ancient pillar of a greek temple below his fingers.

She followed as he left his lookout post without saying a word.

At the foot of the rubble, where Gavroche, was waiting for them, they found a moment of silence, and Enjolras felt Eponine watch him, with dark eyes, gaze unreadable, the slightest of frowns put on her face. There was something earthen to her, something rooted deeply, and for an instant he was infinitely grateful for this quality of hers, because somewhere within her eyes he found an anchor and she did not ask any questions.

They stood in silence for a moment, no words passing spoken or unspoken. He felt his breath easing as he became aware of his surroundings again; the murmuring of the crowd, the stench of the burnt house, the sun blazing down on his head.

The spirit he had evoked did not flee the daylight, but it receded, lingering in the shadows of the fallen building, content to watch the results of his actions unfold. Grantaire, Enjolras thought, had always been more of an observer.

How he would have loved to sneer at his speech, at the idiocy of making a stand at a funeral, and something within Enjolras disagreed with that sneer with fervor.

How it had always vexed him.

Patterns, familiar like the back of his hand, let him find himself again in the calm, unobtrusive darkness that was Éponine's eyes.

"Thank you", he said, his voice slightly rough, finishing his thoughts with a slight nod to himself that was mirrored in her as well.

She did not ask what he meant.

"You're welcome", was all she said.