A/N: Wow... to be welcomed back so warmly... Thank you so much. I try to continue in a timely manner.

I'll admit, I'm dead tired, probably even unable to fully judge if the chapter si good now, but I slaved over it for four days, and now that's that, it's off.

I hope you like it. I also hope that the interaction between certain people lives up both to expectations and to the way I wrote them before.

IN other news - drats. I have forgotten one of my plotlines. Just know that it was there, but don't remember what exactly I had in mind, and I seem to have it noted down nowhere.

*grmbl*

Chapter 72: Calmly at the crossroad

"Was that a compliment?"
"After a fashion."
"Then you trust me?"
"After a fashion."

"Mechtilde?"

For a brief moment she wondered if that was her name.

The notion was ridiculous, of course, and she dismissed it only a few moments later; partly because she remembered that her own name was not Mechtilde, but Azelma, and partly because she realized she had been still half-dreaming.

She dimly remembered walking through a sea of pain and heat, like walking through fire and flame, but the agony had receded to a dull ache for now, and she felt herself more lucid than before.

"Yes, Mother Innocente?"

The answer was not meek, but respectful, soft-spoken in a way that was utterly unfamiliar to the gamine used to the argot and rough words of the street. She spoke the clear, precise french of the rich people and Azelma felt a little out of place.

"Have a look at this, please. Tell me what you make of it."

Rustling of cloth, then rustling of paper. And then silence. Azelma listened to the breathing of the at least two women in the room and wondered briefly where she was. Gingerly, she probed her surroundings, moved the fingers of her hand and realized that she was lying in a bed – an actual bed! - covered with an actual blanket, feathers and all. It was more comfort than she had had in years.

Images came tumbling back – Picpus. The chapel. The monk.

And Jehan...

"This is a surprise indeed." The second, younger, clearer voice took up the conversation after a moment, cutting through her thoughts effortlessly. "After all this time?"

"I did have the impression", the voice belonging to Mother Innocente answered, "that the Fauchelevents have left the convent with the clear intention of not coming back."

"Indeed", Mechtilde answered, and Azelma heard the rustling of her clothes as the nun approached her, placing a hand on her forehead. "It was a shame about Cosette. She had a lovely soprano indeed. Laurels haven't been the same since she left, I am afraid."

Azelma felt as if she had been struck a second time, in a different manner, yet no less violent. The name struck a cord deep within her, in the manner of intense childhood memories, good and bad. She remembered it as she remembered the safety of her early years, remembered it like winter apples and bonnets with ribbons.

Cosette.

A name from another time, another life. She had not thought about her in a long time, but she associated the name immediately – with the barely remembered image of a pale waif (she was not certain if that image was true or just a figment of Eponine's storytelling); but also with the numerous curses and insults her mother had prepared for her and the man who had stolen her from them.

Cosette.

"Oh!" The hand vanished from her forehead immediately as if burned, and Azelma realized that she must have flinched or given another outward sign of surprise. "Mademoiselle..? Are you awake?"

Thoughts racing, she wondered what she should do. She still felt tired, worn and pained, despite the fact that she had the impression of having slept for a long time, and ill at ease to meet the gaze of strangers.

She felt uncomfortable under attention during the best of days, and today she was wounded and unsettled, and the thought of facing two people she had never had before made her stomach clench.

Also, they might continue to speak about Cosette.

And so Azelma called upon the one talent she knew to have – to remain as silent as a mouse, to breathe regularly and move only in the softest ways. To give the impression of nonexistance – or, in this case, at least, of being asleep – and thus escape the regard of others.

It worked, as it always did, and after a few tense moments a subtle shuffling told her Mechtilde had relaxed.

"Is she still feverish?" rang the voice of the elder woman, and the younger gave an affirmative, indistinct noise.

"Better, though."

Azelma controlled her breathing and let her body relax, go limp against the soft, soft cushions of the bed, in the hope that the two women would continue their conversation which they had interrupted more or less for her sake.

They didn't, for now, though, and while Azelma drifted to sleep again, tired from her few moments of wakefulness, she was haunted by the hazy memory of a waif, young, blonde, pale, and could not shake the nagging feeling that something was very wrong.

She hesitated too long. Just that little moment too long.

Living as she did, Eponine knew a lot about lies. She knew about the courage needed to speak them unblinkingly, knew how to keep level tone. She understood all about the way one had to blink just so casually, had learned the fine art of shaping her voice to the story to make it ring just the right way.

She knew she had hesitated too long.

And she knew he knew it as well.

This was, she understood, why he had caught her out here instead of facing her inside. He had surprised her, and with purpose, knowing fully well that the smooth lies she could have fashioned for moments like these would come less easily to her that way.

Less easily still because he held her gaze, strongly, coolly,unmercifully, while she blinked, thoughts racing, and wondered what she would say.

Had she not hesitated, she would have outright denied it, given him a smile and a shrug that was meant for distance rather than friendliness,. But she had, and thus a casual "of course" was not open to her any more.

And with every moment passing by, she lost options . Frozen, wordless she stood and hesitated. Her thoughts were racing, alternating between honesty – but would good would that do? - and various variations on lies and truths that were as futile as the first thing that came to her mind for the one, simple, unavoidable reason.

She had hesitated too long.

He waited, patiently, for what felt like hours but must have been mere moments, and only the slightest rise of his brow told her he was as much aware as she was of the silence. It was not exactly a mocking gesture, but it did carry some hint of a challenge, and finally Eponine responded to that in the only way she really knew how: by opposition.

"What do you expect me to say?"

She sounded defensive to her own ears – and certainly much more to his.

He held her gaze for a moment before he answered coolly, almost detached. He could build and destroy distances with so much as a slight change of posture, and at this moment, he seemed very far away.

"I expected what I got – evasion. I would have preferred truth."

Of course he would go right for the heart of the matter. She should have known. Enjolras' infallible moral compass allowed neither delay or uncertain ground. Mercurial, he had changed from friendliness to merciless inquiry while she had not been looking, and now he seemed to be very far away from the man who had shared apple tarts with her, the man who had shared plans with her while walking through the streets of Paris.

The man who had confided in her at the depth of his pain in the darkness.

The thought struck her like a missed heartbeat.

As forbidding as he seemed now, stern and cold and unwavering, she had seen him falter, seen him doubt. His soul had lain open to her during a few, strange moments, and what she had seen could never be unseen. He would never be quite the same to her again. She knew what thoughts he pushed aside to be what he felt he had to be.

Knowing this, it was even more impossible to lie to him.

"I'm not sure you do", she answered, which was as close to honesty as she dared get, and his lips twitched briefly, although his expression did not change.

"Then you know me less well than I would have hoped."

It was a minuscule memory of sadness that made her meet his eye unwaveringly.

"Or better", she said.

He let this hang for a moment, but the small nod that he gave her acknowledged her point as one at least worth to be considered.

For a moment he seemed content with the silence between them, but just as Eponine started to wonder if he might now let her leave without further comment or deeper damage to whatever strange relationship they had, he continued.

"So", he continued, unfolding his arms, his gesture immediately becoming more lively, although not more accessible. "You leave me nothing but to resort to guesswork, which I abhor."

He took a few steps and placed himself between her and the staircase, as if he had guessed her thoughts.

"But well. We do what must be done."

Eponine felt a rush of anger – not sure if she was more angry at his display of superiority or more angry at the fact that she did care – but Enjolras continued and gave her no opportunity to chip in.

"You are changed, Eponine. You are not the same person I spoke to this morning, that is plain to see. Something has happened at the cemetery. Something beyond what I saw, what any of us saw." He leaned against the barrister in a deceptively relaxed posture. "Friends of ours have died there, but I will not succumb to the illusion that this is what has you unsettled in that manner. You barely knew them; I do not begrudge you your indifference."

Eponine stared at him, feeling oddly detached and wondered with a flash of idle curiosity why she did not run but instead remained rooted on the spot as he laid out the matter before her, more perceptive than he had any right to be.

"Hence"; he continued, "this cannot be the reason. So, what else? You have shown remarkable calm and presence of mind; both when the de Cambouts were attacked and at...", he hesitated just the tiniest of moments, but the flash of weakness was quickly dispelled, ".. the Corinthe. So we can safely rule out sqeamishness at the sight of blood or violence. So, what remains?"

He huffed out a small breath, if in annoyance or some sort of desperate amusement she was not certain.

"I think, Mademoiselle", and she was certain he used the more formal address with purpose and measure, "we have gotten to the point where your past is interfering with your future. Whatever happened at the cemetery connected your upbringing with your dealings with us. And they are at odds with each other. In a manner so strongly and openly that you cannot find a middle ground. Am I correct?"

She froze completely and stared at him, horrified. How had it happened that he was reading her like an open book? How had it happened that she had lost control over what others thought about and saw in her so abysmally that he would pry her secrets from her with so much as a gaze?

This is horrifying, she thought, and considered to run, simply run away from him to return to the life that she had, not a good one, but at least something she knew.

And then she remembered nightly conversations at a window. And her leap of faith as she told him what she had seen in him. The good and the bad. He had looked so stricken, so horrified, on the second occasion even shed tears, and suddenly she understood.

In this, they were alike. Dealing with necessities and hiding demons. Being the epitome of what life made them be; the revolutionary and the gamine, images like from a painting, drawn to serve a purpose. It had led to her still being alive today, and it had turned him into a figurehead of revolution.

And just like she had seen through his sharade right to his pain and confronted him with it, he now returned the favor.

She should have know, of course, there was a price to everything.

She dimly remembered that he had acknowledged her, with precious words and gestures. And yet, she probably was not as valiant, not as honorable as he, for in her conflicting emotions, she did not find anything to say.

She realized she had bowed her head and averted her gaze, unable to meet his any more. It was too late for a display of strength. There had been only few situations where she had had to admit defeat like this, and the experience had never been pleasant.

Yet, he did not gloat.

No words of mockery, not even a stronger emphasis of his point. Having said his fill, Enjolras simply waited for her to respond, patient and merciless.

And all she had left was her pride.

She straightened her tense shoulders and raised her head again to meet his gaze. His calm was fake, she saw as much, but his expression was carefully schooled into neutrality. And Eponine, raising her chin in defiance, secretly clenching her fists in the folds of her skirt answered in the only way she still could.

"Yes."

She had not thought it such a relief to speak it aloud, and surprisingly, he seemed to have felt it too, for his shoulders sagged just ever so slightly at her answer. The part of Eponine that was concentrated on defending herself against an assault recognized the small show of weakness, but another part of her just wondered why.

He surprised her again by asking no questions.

She would have expected him now to pry the whole story out of her, but he seemingly had no interest in this. Instead, he nodded, more to himself than to her, and continued.

"I see", he answered, a simple confirmation. "So, what do you intend to do about it?"

That was the capital question. And since she had started this exercise of honesty, there was no real virtue in stopping now. Not that she was certain she still could. Enjolras was a dangerous man, she had known that for a long time, and she still knew it now. Yet, the words of too many conversations hung between them. She could not unsay what she had said, not undo what she had done.

"I don't know."

"The offer must have been good then", he retorted immediately, and now there was a trace of sarcasm, a trace of even disappointment in his voice. Of course. Enjolras liked his world black and white, full of friends or foes. There was no place for shades in his world. He considered that treason.

Yet Eponine had always dealt in shadows. At this point in time, she was neither friend or foe to him. And hence, she became both.

The thought hurt. She had not realized how much pride she had taken in the fact that Enjolras had started to confide in her. She had not realized how appealing the dream of building a better world had become – and how much better she liked the company she had found here, compared to what she was used to. And yet, with his words, he threatened to snatch it all away, simply because she did not fulfill expectations, simply because her world was not as easy as the world of one born to silk beds and spacious apartments.

"It's not that easy!", she flared up, now bent to defense. "They're all I know. Their world is all I know. I've had a life before I met you, and I've known you only for a few days. I've had to survive before, and I worked hard to live. It doesn't seem much of a life to someone like you, I bet, but it was a life still, and that life I'd be losing, no chance of return. Yes, it's rancid apartments and barely any food. It's shady dealings at night and running from the cognes come morning. But it's a life, at least, and some of them are still my friends. I have parents. I have a sister and a brother. You're asking me to leave them behind, just like that, no turning back."

He stayed silent for a long moment. She had taken a step towards him in her anger, as if to physically support her words, but he held his ground, standing close to her and looking down at her, face unreadable.

Maybe, with these words, the decision had been taken from her. Maybe, after this, he would simply ask her to leave, and it would all be over, the dream and the terror.

It was a bitter thought, and sweet.

When he spoke, it was sudden, and seemingly at odds with their previous discussion.

"I am sure you know that Pontmercy is, by his living family, considered a disgrace to his name and heritage. His grandfather is a a monarchist at heart and carries no love for the cause he has dedicated himself to. Marius lives as he does, because he refuses any support from a family that is so at odds with his own beliefs, working for his needs instead of taking money that is earned in a manner he cannot condone."

There was a small, familiar pang at the thought of Marius and his predicament – which she had known to some extent, but not fully – and a newfound appreciation at the fact that he indeed had cut off himself instead of being cut off by his relations.

A decision of a magnitude she would not have expected of him.

"Feuilly was the apprentice of an artisan fanmaker, years ago. Good work in a small shop, with a man that was mostly kind to him and appreciated his talent. And yet, he had a similar decision to make when the Glorieuses came. The fanmaker supported Louis Phillipe with all his heart, and finally, when he learned Feully's convictions on the matter, this was the end of his work in the shop. He has found a place in a small factory now, longer hours, harder work, less of all that he appreciated with his former master. But Feuilly being Feuilly, he has not regretted a moment of it."

She began to see what he was getting at, yet he continued, with more stories.

"Combeferre's family owns a shipyard down in Bordeaux. The ships are renowned, but the work is done by workers for a ridicule wage on some days, by prisoners on others. Blood gold, he called the family fortune once, and wanted none of it any more. They had a falling out the likes of which we will probably never see again with Combeferre, who tries to find middle ground wherever he can see and justify it. At the end of it, he was not only cut off by his family, but disgraced; his landlord bullied into throwing him out on the streets without so much as a shirt to change; all his connections brought up against him. All, that is, except us. He works at Le Globe, in the Hotel-Dieu, and, when time permits, gives lessons at university to keep himself afloat, and has been doing so admirably."

Enjolras' voice was now tinged with some admiration at the stories of his friends that did not leave her completely unaffected.

"Each of us carries a story of that kind with us", Enjolras concluded. "We are no strangers to the impasse you have reached today. None of us. Revolution cannot be done by half measures. It demands all a person has to give, and at some point in time it will put you at odds with what you knew and believed. This is a law of nature, of sorts, and you are susceptible to it as much as anyone else."

He sighed.

"We all asked ourselves the same question. We all left what we were, to some extent. Some more, some less. But to change the world, Eponine, you have to leave yours."

She pondered that for a moment, the stories behind the young, idealistic faces. A view into another world. People, she realized, were probably similar, be them rich or poor. And everything came at a price.

His words had allowed her some time to regain her footing again. Feeling more like herself again, she also felt more at ease with Enjolras, as if his speech had reminded her of what connected them, instead of what seperated her from the students.

And with this, her brazen curiosity came forth again.

"What about you?" she asked.

He looked surprised, for a moment, and then a small smile echoed over his features, quite despite himself, but honest, at least.

When, his voice carried a different note. Almost slightly whimsical, but definitely softer, maybe more accessible even.

"I am an only son", he began. "My father owns an estate, down in Draguignan, in Provence. It's a beautiful area, hills and fields and vinyards. In summer, the fields smell of lavender. The area is so beautiful that the rich of the country have started to build mansions there to repose in summer."

For a moment, he seemed to remember the hills and valleys, his gaze not locking on her but rather wandering off, but he caught himself again and continued, his tone more sober than before.

"I have not been there in more than two years. Not since the year before the jours glorieuses, in fact. Why, you may ask, and I might give you a multitude of reasons, starting with a convincing claim that I have no time, and that the trip is costly, but all of this would be evasion and nothing more."

He turned towards her again.

"The truth of the matter is that I would reach an impasse similar to yours if I talked to my parents. Neither of them would understand this city, my actions or my strife. They are not mean by heart – one might say that when it comes to landlords they are probably among the kinder ones – but I have no illusions as to their opinion towards an upraising in this land. I have the advantage of distance on you, and thus I maintain the status quo."

Eponine frowned. To shy out of a confrontation like this was almost... cowardly, and that was something that she would have never associated with Enjolras. If anything, she had always seen him eager to take on a fight, and this caution and care seemed almost out of character.

For some reason she found this grating.

"You are avoiding them. Isn't that rather easy?"

He raised his brows, mildly annoyed.

"Interesting comment in view of the discussion we just had", he retorted, but without any actual bite. He took a deep breath. "In fact, this may come as a surprise to you, but despite all of this, despite their inclinations, my family is dear to me. I will cross them in the name of revolution, if need be, but I admit it will pain me to sever that connection forever. You may call it a weakness if you like." He smiled a brief smile without mirth. "I will admit this story is nowhere near as courageous or bold as that of Pontmercy or Combeferre.."

He frowned, as if struck by a new thought and continued, less certain. "Sometimes I wonder how much they know or suspect. But they never asked, in none of their letters."

"I guess that means they do know some", Eponine answered with a shrug. "And keep their part of the bargain." She was familiar with the delicate webs that could be destroyed by the wrong question. Sometimes, it was better, much better just not to know.

It had been one of the cornerstones of her relationship with Montparnasse.

For a moment, both of them stayed silent. It was a silence much more comfortable than before, as if the pressure, the anger of the first words had evaporated to be replaced by something else. Nothing was resolved, and she was still hanging on the edge of a decision she truly feared to make. And yet, it helped to know that to some extent they still understood each other.

Now, probably better than before. She wondered if he realized it, too.

For a moment she thought so, for he seemed as content with the silence as she was, standing in the half dark of the top landing inside the noisy tenement that became their refuge.

But of course, Enjolras never rested for long.

"Is it care that makes you hesitate?" The question came out of the blue, serious and sober again. "For family? Friends? A lover?"

Denial sprang to her lips immediately, but even before the words were spoken, Eponine realized that it was not quite as simple as that. With her father, it was easy. Whatever love she had had for him, it had been warped during the last years, and whatever appreciation she had held for his craftiness was no mach for the alluring power of the students' dreams.

When it came to her mother, she felt part sorrow and part anger, and a deep, burning desire not to end as she would, drowning in cheap spirits and the ghosts of all the lost hopes and dreams and wishes. She dimly remembered how she had loved her, remembered carefree days at the inn, but these were the days of another life. The inn was gone, and so was that Eponine. And so was that mother.

Gavroche and Azelma...

Still her smaller siblings, still the ones she felt most akin to. And yet... Gavroche was entangled as deeply into this as Eponine herself, and when it came to Azelma...

There was the curious matter of Picpus that she still had to go to the bottom of. It told her, if nothing else, that the world had shifted and realigned around her sister in a curious manner, and certainly Jehan would not be one to forget a deed of that magnitude.

So, Azelma was not necessarily lost.

No, the ambiguousness of the decision before her rooted in two cornerstones. One was her reputation on the streets, the one that had been an asset to them before. And the other one – that was Montparnasse.

And she had no idea what she thought or felt on the subject.

"It's complicated."

"These things always are, Eponine." He took a step towards her, for a moment almost seeming uncertain.

"You know", he began, his polished speech not quite as accurate, almost a little rushed, "I have half a mind to bring up all the words that may sway your mind. To use all the arguments you already know, and those that you still need to learn; to point out the obvious and bring you around to our cause, whatever it may take. I might speak to you as I speak to the public, to rouse and rally them behind me. To use that force you claim I have to make the odds sway in our favor."

He sighed.

"But you are better than that. And you know all that you need to know. You do not need to hear, you need to think and decide. I want you on our side, make no mistake, but I want it by your own accord. You, Eponine, who see me so clearly, can find the answer not in my words, only within yourself. And thus I must stay silent."

A smile ghosted over his features, an expression she could not quite place; whistful, mocking, still somehow honest.

"And rest assured, it is not easy."

Again, he was giving her freedom. After all that he had guessed, even after her admitting uncertainty, he was still offering her freedom.

"But...", she begain, "but will it hold? If I join with you, will that be enough? You are planning madness and revolution, only days away. What if it all ends there? What if you die? If I'm left with nothing at all?"

He nodded, almost to himself.

"I will make no false reassurance, Eponine. I would not go into this, if I were not convinced we have a chance of turning the outcome in our favor. But our fate will be decided and the future is uncertain. It is a risk we all take, the greatest risk of them all, to obtain the greatest reward. To decide, even in face of that uncertainty, is part of the task that you have ahead of you."

He hesitated for a moment, the fingers of his left clenching and unclenching on the barrister, a rare sign of uncertainty.

"Rest assure of one thing though, Eponine. I... have come to realize..." He hesitated and then broke off the sentence and started anew, sounding slightly rushed again. "As long as I am able, I will be aware of the sacrifices that you made. You would leave behind a world, yes, but as far as it is in my power I would make certain you find a new one."

She stared at him, uncertain what to say. Uncertain, how to interpret his tone of voice, and the fact that his polished speech had suffered during these last sentences.

Wondering, what he had actually wanted to say.

Silence stretched between them, and he broke it with a smile that still carried a notion of the uncertainty his words had held just before.

"Not that I do think you would need much guidance in that respect."

She wondered if he was doing exactly what he had just claimed would be futile – to try and sway her with words, to use the attraction he was able to wake in others to sway her mind.

But somehow, she did not believe it. She had seen how he led his band of brothers, how he connected with other revolutionaries, and this did not fit. Quite to the contrary, he seemed desperately not to try to shower her in one of his speeches, but it seemed as if some inner drive still compelled him to speak – and since he had denied himself politics, the words he found were different ones.

If anything, Enjolras was an honest man.

The thought was unsettling.

"Listen, Eponine..."

She almost flinched when he spoke again, torn out of her own thoughts.

"I have a proposal." He let his hand slip into his pocket and produced a silver key, dangling on a simple piece of rope. "Find Combeferre. He said he still has an article to finish, so he will appreciate the calm in Rue Pascal. And you can get a few moments of safe and calm and sleep. You need it."

This, Eponine thought, must have been the oddest conversation she had had with Enjolras since she had gotten to know him. And yet...

There was an earnesty in his offer that she could not dispell.

And the thought of just curling up in a safe place was incredibly alluring.

"I haven't made a decision", she answered. "How will you know I don't rob you and run?"

He shook his head slowly, holding out the key to her.

"I don't", he said. "But at the heart of revolution is trust. If I don't have that, I have nothing at all. I trust you, Eponine. And thus I let you go."