A/N: Yes. I know. I apologize. I am still writing though and not forgetting this story. Hope you like where I'm going.

Oh. And whoever writes the 400th review may ask me a plot question ;-)

Chapter 69: Of flight and fight

"The third principle of sentient life is the capacity of self sacrifice. The conscious ability to override evolution and self preservation for a cause, a friend, a loved one."

"Of all the bullheaded, idiotic, motherfucking morons!"

The words were out before Éponine could help herself, and in any case, she did not really care. Her attention was focused too closely on the movement in the crowd where she had seen an all too familiar black coat vanishing between the mass of spectators. And who would judge her – or who would dare to tell her that her words were anything but the truth?

If she had needed any further proof for her suspicion, this would have been it. She had needed only a glimpse of Montparnasse, his face set in deadly determination as he pulled the trigger, to understand what was going on.

And she felt betrayed. Betrayed, because her childhood friend had taken a path that drove him away from her. Betrayed, because he had sacrificed the possibility to help more than just himself on the altar of fleeting money and power. Betrayed, because he had placed his feet on unsteady quicksand and left her alone in the wake.

She had done the same, of course, just that she had drifted in another direction.

And that was the worst thought of all.

And so, Éponine pushed it aside, drawing for once on a helpful ignorance, that while they had essentially done similar things, she was right and he was wrong, and this allowed her to fuel her fury again as she pushed towards the crowds to follow him.

He was quick as a fox, but so was Éponine. There had been a time when he had passed on what he knew to the young, scrawny girl from the country that had, all of a sudden, found herself in the gutters of Paris, and this now turned to his disadvantage. He slipped through the moving masses, using the oscillating movements of the crowd to determine his openings, but Éponine was smaller than him and skilled in the same art. The chaos on the square, people running in different directions, was helping them both, and so she found herself at the walls of the cemetery soon enough, only to see him vanish on the other side, quick steps retreating further.

"Oh, no, no, no." She raced towards the wall and climbed it, heard the fabric of her newer – better – dress (his gift, his present, so it was only befitting that it was damaged now) tear somewhere around her knee, but she did not mind. She was set on finding him and would not hesitate to do what she needed.

The wall was not very high, no true obstacle for one who had climbed the roofs of La Force, and her bare feet found solid ground again on the other side, cobblestones and dust. His footsteps were gone, but Eponine had paid attention to the direction they had left for and hurried off, alongside the wall, trying, over the noise coming from the cemetery, to pick up Montparnasse's trace again.

The streets were deserted, as if everyone in the vicinity had either decided to join the brawl that was forming on the cemetery, or decided to find the deepest, most secret hole available to weather out the storm coming in the hope not to be hit by it.

Just a few days ago, Eponine would have probably joined them. But today, she was on a different mission.

She only threw a very quick glance into the streets that she passed, but could see Montparnasse in none of them, and so she continued along the cemetery wall following the Boulevard d'Enfer northbound towards the Jardin du Luxembourg.

He must have hidden somewhere in the overgrown vines that marked the boundary of the Jardin de la Chaumière, and Éponine, looking out for a fleeing, not a hiding man, did not see him until it was much too late.

A shadow moving at the corner of her field of view, a hand snatching hers, and she felt herself whirled around, the momentum of her speed playing against her as she was dragged into the bushes before she could regain her footing. Her back crashed into the rough bark of a tree and she knocked her head on it, seeing stars for a moment before her vision cleared again.

He was in front of her, right in front of her, his hands on her shoulders pinning her towards the tree. She had never seen him as enraged as today – no, in fact, she had never seen this fury directed at her.

She knew that there was a dark side to her friend, a rage, an uncontrollable, cold temper, but now, at the receiving end of it, she wondered if she would even have the time to scream, would she decide that she needed it.

For the first time in her life, she was truly afraid of him.

But of course, she was not about to let him see that.

"What do you think you are doing?" His words were nothing but a cold hiss, and he added a shake, rattling her body against the tree painfully.

Eponine clenched her fists, feeling with her lower arm the slight bulge at her hip where she had hidden Enjolras' pistol in her pocket. She had no intention of using it against Montparnasse, but for some reason it was comforting none the less to know it was there. She called upon what bravado she could find in her heart and glared at him in response.

"I could ask you the same thing", she answered coldly. "Since when are you dancing to another's tune?"

He sneered and towered over her, almost close enough to embrace, but that time was long gone and possibly forever. Now, as he closed in, he was not bent on tenderness, but threat. He took a few deep breaths, but when he answered, his voice was almost calm, like a cat, that, with deceptive mildness, approached its prey on very soft paws.

"I could ask you the same thing", he gave back her words. "I knew you've been all doe-eyed about that fool of Pontmercy, but now?" He snorted in disgust. "You've become their pet."

"I've become their friend", Éponine gave back hotly, and now he laughed, coldly, bitterly, and Éponine wondered when her playful, inventive friend had turned into this creature that now presented itself before him.

"The likes of them don't make friends, at least not with the likes of us. At best, they make allies. When have you become a naïve child again, Ponine?"

Éponine was about to give another acid reply when she realized how well he had turned the flow of conversation against her, when she had actually come to accuse, not to defend.

Angry at herself and at him in equal measures, she decided that this had to stop.

"At least I am not running around killing other people."

"And how long do you think you can keep that up with the pace that your friends are going at?"

"At least then it would be for something we believe in. And you? What are you killing for? It's students you murdered, people who try to make the situation better for the likes of us!"

He gave her a final shake before he let her go, taking a step back but relieving her not of his angry gaze.

"I am killing for something that I believe in as well"

She contemplated this only for a moment. It was all too clear what he meant if one made the effort to think it through.

"Money", she said in disgust. "That's all you care about."

Something quickly flashed through his eyes, almost unrecognizeable, but it was washed away by a profound hostility that seemed to overpower every other emotion he might have harboured.

"What is it to you", he lashed out callously. "It is not as if you cared."

There was a surprising flash of bitterness in his words, almost a righteous accusation, but whatever honesty had called forth this statement, he mastered it soon enough.

"And", he added, "it is not as if it were any of your business. Have it your own way, Ponine, be the pet of these students if that's what you want. Just don't ask me to be that foolish as well."

"I don't ask you to join them", she snapped back. "I know well that that would be a recipe for disaster on both accounts. I'm just asking you to leave them alone."

That surprised him, but only for a moment. In a gesture of studied calm, he crossed his arms before answering.

"Why?"

She had expected a blunt rebuffal, probably another callous comment of the type she had already received, so the rather composed curiosity was an unexpected change in his demeanor. And yet, he was still radiating hostility, and Éponine was not fooled. Whatever had remained of the bond they once shared was now strained to the point of snapping.

She was about to lose the one friend she had always had in Paris.

It should have been a frightening thought. But instead, it was only a sad one.

She had left Montparnasse, because she had realized that he was following a path that would sooner or later lead to a place where she did not want to follow him. Once that revelation had been reached, the current situation was probably only the logical conclusion.

And yet, what sort of reason could she give him? He had made it clear that he did not believe in what they were doing, and Éponine was fairly sure that she would not be able to convince him otherwise. At least not here, not now.

So she turned towards the only other reason she could think of.

"Because I'm with them."

He snorted.

"I tried to protect you, as you have surely figured out by now. Didn't really work all that well, did it? So, if you don't know what's good for you, what's it to me?"

"But I am asking you to", Éponine answered, and pulled the proverbial final arrow from her quiver. If this did not help, then nothing did. "We were friends once, even if we are not any more. For the sake of what we've been. For the sake of…"

And then he laughed. Fully, broadly, menacingly, eyes flashing, mouth wide open in a gesture of false, false mirth.

"When did it happen that I am in your debt?" Montparnasse shook his head. "Let me turn this argument around, sweetheart. Actually you owe me. And you know it. I saved you. Twice, I might add. Without me, you would have been dead two times over, and you have the gall to come and ask me for another favor?! You've truly forgotten where you came from, gamine!"

He looked at her and whatever had been there of her childhood friend before, now, it was good and truly done.

"Let's do this in a different manner, sweet. You want to survive the streets? You want to keep your reputation, want to keep that precious hideout of yours?" He bowed forward his breath washing over her face, familiar scent turned into a hated odor. "You want to keep sweet Pontmercy safe?"

She held his gaze best that she could.

"Deliver me Enjolras"; he whispered menacingly. "Deliver me Enjolras, or I will tell everyone how you refused to pay back on a favor as large as a payback for your life. Deliver me Enjolras, or no one of the miserables will ever dare or want to look at you again. Deliver me Enjolras, or you will learn what it truly means to be alone."

She gazed at him in a mixture of terror and disgust, almost too stunned to speak.

The game was over.

The crossroad was reached.

"What?" she asked, trying to delay the inevitable, but Montparnasse was not fooled.

"Monday at midnight in the silver hall", he answered. "It's your call, princess. Think well."

And with this he strolled off, just like that, and Eponine stayed back, too stunned and shocked to follow.

The first moments were pandaemonium. Screams, cries, hectic movement in the crowd around him as some of the spectators tried to flee while others were intent on moving forward towards the center of the uproar. Within seconds, he found himself alone, dimly only being aware of the both repulsive and impressive string of profanities that had undoubtedly flown from Éponine's mouth before she vanished between two broad backs, like a mouse slipping through the crack of a wall.

Finding her was hopeless – especially given the fact that she had taken off on her own and therefore apparently had left on purpose – and in any case there were more urgent things to be taken care of. Éponine knew what she did.

The first imperative of the moment was an overview of the situation, and as things were, he was currently ill equipped to do so.

Enjolras retreated a little from the heat of the battle, stumbling back a little in search for a point better suited for a survey, but it seemed impossible within the chaos. People were running, both towards the grave, where the heat of the events seemed to take place, as well as away from the fighting, and in between them, it would be easy for a careless shove to push him to the ground.

Enjolras, though not lacking courage, realized the danger when he saw it and instead took a big leap towards one of the taller tombstones, memorizing a man going by the name of Auguste Revrier. The tombstone was not exceptional in any way except that it was of remarkably even form and thus presented a good viewpoint.

He spoke a silent prayer of apology to the foreign man, not knowing if he would have appreciated him or his intention, but practicality overruled any piety he might have felt.

It was not high enough to gain a full overview, but the few extra inches allowed him to at least primarily assess the situation.

Towards the destined grave of Ramon Deleric, as he had already assumed, a fight was ongoing between students and a few of the armed guards. Further away, he realized not without satisfaction how far the crowd actually reached, until the boundaries of the cemetery. It was thinning out the further one reached from the center of attention, but still, it seemed as half of the université had decided to make an appearance, young faces full of fear, anger and enthusiasm all around.

The nucleus he had hoped for.

But the brawl at the center was not quite what he had hoped for.

He scanned the crowd for familiar faces.

Combeferre was on the outskirts, more observing than participating, and judging from what Enjolras could see of the look on his face he liked the development of things no more than he did, even though from where he was standing he was presumably much less well informed.

Not quite befitting for a journalist, Enjolras thought absent-mindedly. His friend was out of reach for the moment and he did not look into Enjolras' direction so that they could have shared a gaze and maybe a silent set of instructions.

It did not matter.

Only too soon, other people would recognize him as well. When he started speaking.

On the far end, lined up along the cemetery walls, he recognized the shape of a dark-skinned, slender woman, siting on the roof of one of the mausoleums that lined up there. Adelaide. No sign of Courfeyrac or Charles Jeanne in her vicinity though.

His gaze wandered further without hesitation, strayed and assessed, and so he did not see how the woman that had accompanied Adelaide to the roof suddenly turned towards the ladder and tried to climb down again.

Did not see, how Adelaide followed, leaving her basket unattented on the roof.

Didn't see any of what happened afterwards.

Fury was a red hot animal.

It was coursing through his veins, burning in his joins, bleeding from his eyes, mouth and nose, burning through his every movement.

It was a force unleashed, once and for all, and he did not care what he would do.

The time for words had passed. Now, finally, the fists were talking.

Bahorel did not even remember that he had brought a pistol to this place, clearly expecting trouble, maybe not of the kind he was facing now, but certainly of a similar type.

But a pistol was so very unsatisfactory as opposed to the direct gratification of a punch into the face.

As soon as the shots had cracked over the premises, Bahorel had rushed forward with the vague idea of getting those of his associates out that found himself closer to the heat of the situation than himself.

As soon as he had neared the center of events he had realized how very futile this hope was.

Policemen were fighting students. Students were fighting policemen. Students were fighting other students, be it to trespass to friends of theirs, be it because one was holding the other back, be it for reasons that Bahorel could not discern at a quick glance.

Instead, he joined their numbers.

With the vague idea of finding the little theology student that had been at their assemblies, with the vague idea of ensuring that none of their own was close enough to the brawl to get hurt – Marc Lamarin, for one, might just be foolish enough, and where he was, Joly and Bossuet would not be far behind – he launched himself headfirst into battle.

There was something satisfying about this. He had waited, talked, hidden and ran away for much too long. It was not in his nature.

The policeman that had turned around to him held a pistol, trying to bring it up towards him to keep him at bay, but the man hesitated just that tiny second too long, and Bahorel was upon them. A solid beat aimed at his wrist, but the man was quick enough and tore his hand away, his arm fulfilling a wide swing before it came down with force on Bahorel's shoulder.

He reacted on instinct and dove out of the way but could not avoid the blow altogether. He grabbed the policeman's arm to avoid staring down the mound of the pistol again and wrestled it to the side, but the man was strong, surprisingly strong, and resisted.

For a moment they were caught in a moment of equality, strength of arm against strength of arm, but then Bahorel twisted himself around in a quick movement, bringing his back against the front of the policeman with an agile movement. The man was surprised and apparently, for all his fighting experience, less proficient in the dirtier tricks of a tavern brawl.

His short moment of hesitation gave Bahorel the time to bring his elbow against the man's wrist.

An ugly cracking was the telltale sign of bones knocking, and the scream of pain that shrieked into his ear told him that he had gained the upper hand in the battle. Losing no time he turned around again, the palm of his hand ramming against the policeman's nose..

He fell like a tree under the fury of an axe.

Bahorel, not waiting to see if the man would rise again, stepped forward to face the next foe.

"What happened?"

Cosette, excitement painting red spots onto her pale cheeks, raised herself a little from the actually fairly comfortable seat on top of the mausoleum as if this would significantly improve her view on the scenery before her.

It did not, of course, and she was not wiser than Adelaide, who had not bothered to fulfil a similar action and instead let her gaze wander over the assembled crowd, tensely and attentively.

"I am not sure", she answered after a moment. "It does not look good though." From above it was clear that a fight had broken out. Somewhere in the area of where the coffin vanished in the developing chaos, there had been shots, and Adelaide had seen very well how the victims had gone down.

She was quite sure that the shots had come from at least two different places; the first one slightly to her left while the other two seemed to be in the direct line of sight between her and the intended grave of Ramon Deleric, possibly from the same place, although she was not sure.

It had been artfully done, she had to give them that. The moment had been perfect, everyone's attention focused on priest and coffin, so that the probability for escape was best. And the targets had been well-chosen.

The death of a guard would certainly lead to rash reactions on part of his comrades. Adelaide had recognized the inspector leading them – Javert was a well-known and not especially loved figure in the city, so she was neither surprised nor thrilled to see him here. He was known for his ruthlessness, and so one could possibly rely on him losing his temper in a situation like this.

The interesting question was, of course, the intent behind it.

Chaos?

Discredit?

Adelaide was not sure which of the potential ideas made sense.

But she did not have time to think about it, for the girl at her side had quite obviously made good use of her observation post.

"There's Marius!" Cosette exclaimed, and as Adelaide followed her pointing she realized that there indeed he was, and so was Courfeyrac. They were hastily and with a lot of vigor talking to a few men that Adelaide dimly remembered to have seen at some protestation or other, and while none of the words could be heard over the overall noise that populated the cemetery, their body language was beseeching enough.

They were near the heart of the event, and after a moment she realized what they were doing. They, together with a small group of students, were shielding the wagon that the coffin of Ramon Deleric was situated on from the angry onslaught of both students and soldiers, who, probably for different reasons, were closing in on it.

Not the best place to be, Adelaide concluded, but her companion seemed of quite a different mind.

"We have to help them."

Adelaide followed her gaze and frowned.

"I'm not sure", she answered, "if we could even reach them. Look at the crowd they have assembled. Chances are we will get stuck."

"Chances are they will get crushed", Cosette answered hotly. "Or something else happens."

Adelaide measured her from the side.

"And what good would it do you if you were crushed with him? Or what good would it do him?"

She hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing as she weighed her options. Adelaide felt a strange, detached sort of curiosity at what she would finally decide to say.

In the end, Cosette surprised her again.

"We are women", she answered. "That could be an advantage. Maybe they won't attack us right away, and that'll make things easier, maybe. We could keep them at bay. Maybe it will make them see sense."

Adelaide chuckled against her will.

"Good thinking. Slightly mad, definitely dangerous, but good thinking."

She gazed down and measured the panic. Cosette was right, both Marius and Courfeyrac seemed to be in serious trouble. By now, they had reached the cart, back against the wood, and the crowd was dangerously closing in. It was not a real fight, not yet, but she understood Cosette's worry. And her plan was not quite that bad.

"I'm going." Obviously, Cosette was tired of waiting for her decision. "I'm sorry, but I really can't watch this. Not from above here. I need to try, at least."

There was something about her enthusiasm, the determination born from good will, faith and stubbornness, that was as irresistible as a magic spell. Adelaide had always been drawn to the foolishly enthusiastic, and after Courfeyrac and Charles Jeanne, Cosette was no exception.

And so she followed her as she climbed down the ladder, as she ran into the thick of people before her, fearless and determined.

Ready to take on the world.

Jean Valjean was torn between fight and flight.

All instincts he possessed, developed in long years on the run, longer years in hiding, told him that this was the worst place he could be. Unlike the students, probably rich enough to buy their way out of trouble, he could not afford to be taken, lest his secret were discovered. He could not even afford to be seen, and part of the success of his past years had lain in the fact that he had stayed away from every thinkable place where he might encounter a policeman or two.

And yet, something else was painfully clear.

Cosette was here, somewhere, and she was probably in danger.

And so he hurried through the running crowd, avoiding policemen where he could, avoiding their gazes at least, if he could not help passing them every now and then. He hoped she was not in the thick where the shots had fallen – for then she was beyond help and there would be nothing that he could do to reach her.

But that was not so probable, and so he hurried through the running crowd. He only narrowly avoided colliding with a young, pale man with a dark coat and a top hat, sidestepped a girl that was obviously hard on his heels and vainly tried to gain an overview on the situation.

It was fate that finally came to his aid.

He saw a flash of her gardening dress – the plainest dress she owned – somewhere in the distance, and immediately pushed through the crowd mercilessly, shoving aside whatever came into his way. When he reached the place where he had spotted his daughter, she was of course already gone. He whirled around, his gaze darting around hectically. He spotted her again, running, another woman, tall, and surprisingly dark skinned, hard on her heels.

As he pushed through the crowd he allowed himself the luxury of a quick, wondering question as to how she had come to know this woman that he had never seen before. His daughter, there was no denying, was growing up in disquieting speed.

The two women were pushing through the crowd that, although it did not part for them, at least made no effort to hinder their passage. That was encouraging, even though it meant that he had to hurry to keep up, for the people were much less prone to let him pass than they had been for the women. Every now and then, an elbow would find its way into his stomach, a body would needed to be shoved aside. He alternated between calls for his daughter – which she showed no sign of hearing – and much more softly muttered excuses towards the people he bumped against.

There was no denying, they were going towards the heart of the brawl. As the crowd grew thicker, it became more difficult to follow them, the wall of human beings parting reluctantly for the two girls, and not at all for him. Jean Valjean, after a moment's hesitation during which he weighted worry against politeness and the need not to draw attention to himself, resorted to strength instead of agility and ruthlessness reawakened easily.

"Let me through", he growled, where before he had been soft-spoken, and this show of strength accomplished what politeness had not. But it was only when the coffin – a monstrum of black stone and ornaments – came into view that he spied his daughter again. She was a few meters before him, aiming for the center where a small number of students were heavily besieged by the surrounding crowd, trying to hold the onslaught of various parties at bay with a mixture of words, pushes, shoves and sheer determination. Marius Pontmercy was among them – which explained the determination of his daughter – and as much in trouble as the rest of them.

He received a tough puff into the chest, and a second one, more of a shove than a true hit, but he stumbled backwards against the cart. That in itself wouldn't have been so bad, had there not been a rhythm to the crowd, that had emerged during the last moments of the assault, a frantic beat.

It was not only Marius who toppled against the cart in that moment. The same happened to three other men at his side, and this was enough to unsettle the wagon, which slightly lost his balance, two of the heavy wheels temporarily leaving the floor.

He saw the catastrophe coming, and to his horror, so did Cosette, who let out a screech of panic and broke through the remaining crowd with the force of pure desperation. The cart, in the meanwhile, fell back onto all four wheels, but a distinctive crack told him, that one of the axes had not survived this sudden movement unharmed.

The cart sagged to a side, hanging lopsided now, and as if some power had suddenly slowed time to enhance the pain of the seconds passing, he saw the heavy coffin beginning to slide, slide, and finally break through the wooden rail with a sickening, cracking sound.

And the heavy stone coffin tumbled down to where his daughter had just reached the still unsettled Marius Pontmercy.