PLEASE NOTE THERE HAVE BEEN TWO UPDATES.
And so this is it. The end of our longest arc to date, and one of the most involved and active. So far. A few notices:
1. As we have mentioned earlier, we are cutting down the number of arcs to come due to a refining of the storyline. This does not mean that more arcs or short stories or other CS related things will not follow, simply that the projected full storyline is going to take less time to complete. At the moment we project 2-3 more arcs, though this may grow as we plot and write it out. Because we are radically rewriting the plot from here, it will take us some time before we can start posting Arc 6. This will mean that there will be a hiatus for a while.
2. While CS itself is going to be on Hiatus, TW and I will not stop writing. We have several projects on the boil and please do stop by and read those while you're waiting for us (or read storytellers' stuff. She's awesome). I'm writing a fantasy take on Les Mis called Les Cartes Du Destin under my username 'Sythar', so drop me a line – and both TW and I will be publishing a series of short pieces from the Surete's point of view as they react to on and off-screen actions from the League.
3. TW and I will be found over at (forum4(dot)aimoo(dot)com(forwardslash)lamecreation the Les Mis section) talking LM fanfiction, swapping ideas, sharing oneshots we don't intend to publish on for whatever reason, and offering our services as beta readers or sounding boards for any of your fanfiction writing questions. We make a point of not allowing flaming or trolling on our forum, and if you don't want people talking about OOC-ness, you can just say so and we will only focus on the writing style.
4. Another place for discussing fanfiction is storytellers fanfiction discussion forum on where storytellers and I will be hanging out.
So – until we're back with Arc 6, pop by our forums or PM us. We'll miss you heaps and we'll still be updating sporadically on our other projects so don't forget about us! Happy Late 2nd Birthday Capitain Scaramouche!
-Love
Sythar and TW
P.S. OPEN SEASON. Please feel free to give us ideas for antics you'd like the League to have been perpetrating for the Surete to talk about – OR things you'd like to see happen in the next two arcs. We will probably be able to work them in somewhere.
Brilliant. Collapsing heroes, republicans dressed as sergent-du-ville, fan-makers tricking the head of the Surete. Whoever is writing this particular penny-dreadful, I would like to protest our positive dearth of cases of consumptive whores, plaintive orphans and nefarious villains pretending to be long lost relatives when they are in actual fact members of the Haute Pegre who are chasing one of our friends who is secretly related to Charles X and heir to a massive fortune. Probably Joly, I would say. Or perhaps Lesgle, as his Law Student With Perpetual Bad Luck identity would be an excellent cover.
Eugene snorted, and considered that since both Augustin and Perceval seemed hell-bent on taking ownership of the whole debacle he was going to have to be practical and spell it out for them in clear French of less than three syllables. Do not think I will let you forget any time soon that you are both robbing me of a few moments of guilt-ridden ridiculousness myself. Who was it, might I ask who let Pilon – Duval – whoever he is surprise them in Enjolras' flat, overpower them and arrest them informally and without any charges? And thus set off this whole chain of horrible events? Yes, my two leaders, that would be me. So as you are both going to force me to be logical about this and not dwell on my own culpability, I expect a fresh notebook – or apple from each of you.
God. I sound like a teacher.
But let us be reasonable, mes amis. Who is to blame for Pilon's obsession? Perceval? While we might argue that it Perceval's efforts in uncovering Pilon as a spy and deflecting his attempts to arrest and or embarrass us enraged the connard, that was not the start of this mess. Nor, indeed Augustin, was it your lack of insight into Pilon's character when he approached you. No. We cannot lay the blame here on Enjolras' shoulders either. His faith in the inherent goodness of the people is one of his strengths, and I for one am sorry that we all had our delusions of moderate anonymity and safety shattered like this. Was it to our own benefit? Most likely. After all, we are now on our guard. We are less likely to be caught in the same bear-trap twice. But that we have to be on our guard, suspicious of any new man in case he may be a government mole – is far from ideal. I look forward to a time when this will not be needed.
So – who is to blame for criminally and illegally arresting me in Enjolras' apartment? For breaking into said apartment in the first place? For abusing a position of power to torture helpless prisoners? I think we might easily say that this person is Pilon himself. Lay blame where blame is due. Even M. Vidocq pointed out quite loudly his displeasure with Pilon's techniques, and Vidocq is not even on our side. (Perhaps some day he will be. This would be helpful since he is astute, powerful, and unorthodox and may be more difficult to outmanoeuvre than the National Guard.) Pilon is a weasel. In trousers. In fact this is an insult to weasel kind and the minute I get back to my quarters I shall write them a letter and apologise for the comparison. So please, can we stop laying guilt on our shoulders, stop demanding why – how – where and who… and stop saying what should have or could have been until at least one single bloody day has passed between us and this nightmare?
Thank you.
As a note, however, Perceval, if you dare do this again I will personally eviscerate you.
Eugene nodded to Feuilly briskly and the two of them half carried, half supported the fainting Scaramouche/Grantaire/whoever you are you strange man over to a chair. "Set him down here, thank you. Now glare him into submission while I examine him, will you?"
"I'll be happy to." Feuilly directed a very respectable glare at his friend, who looked up blearily, lopsidedly hunched his shoulders like a scolded schoolboy, and submitted beautifully to the removing of shirt and cravat.
Oh dear god. I will start charging you, you empty-headed numbskull if you don't take more care of yourself! Eugene heard Feuilly hiss in concern as they both looked over Perceval's torso. Or not just his torso – because there was a gash on his head too – and a bruise down his cheek, and definite discolouring around the collarbone. But the torso was certainly where the majority of the damage had been done, and large swathes of skin had purpled angrily. "I see."
"He loves my ribs," Perceval said quietly.
Feuilly looked slightly more murderous than he had been looking earlier, which was enough for Eugene to start considering ways to hide his sharper medical instruments. "Tough love, is it?"
"A bit."
Idiot. Eugene felt over the ribs in question as lightly as he could while still getting some idea of what was going on, and addressed Feuilly directly so as to avoid shouting loudly at Perceval and waking up Bahorel, Joly and Lesgle. "How bad would this have been if he'd been in there alone?"
Feuilly met his eyes, and Eugene could tell he wasn't the only one who had been wondering this ever since they had been forced to leave Bahorel and Grantaire behind. If Enjolras had not been there… If Perceval had been on his own… If Duval had been faced with no one but the focal point of his obsessive rage… would there even have been a corpse to rescue? "I'm guessed quite a bit worse," Feuilly said in the sort of voice Feuilly used when he was making an understatement.
"Better." Perceval yelped a little as Eugene's fingers found a break. "I'd have been the only one hurt."
Eugene took one look at the anguished expression on Feuilly's face and gritted his teeth. Dear M. St Just – I have become friends with two thick-headed impulsive men idealistically committed to flinging themselves into dangerous situations without the slightest regard for their own welfare. I am sure you would approve of one of them as he is utterly devoted to the Republic, while the other is apolitical but no less devoted to protecting any and every person who comes into his circle of acquaintance. As I predict either one or both of them are going to get themselves killed shortly, I wanted to know whether it would be directly violating the Rights of Men to lock them up in their apartments for the rest of their lives?
"Perceval," he said finally in a very very quiet voice. "A word of advice: don't say things like that when your friends are worried about you."
"Because we are," Feuilly added tightly.
The stubborn look on Grantaire's face softened a little and he looked at Feuilly. "I… just would… rather get only myself in trouble."
"The trouble with only getting yourself in trouble, Perceval, is that you can't get anyone out of trouble like that."
Circuitous, Feuilly, but perfectly apt. Eugene decided to leave that particular argument to the two of them, and concentrated on finding out whether any more ribs were broken. How the hell have none of these pierced a lung yet? Do not say that it's due to you taking care of yourself because I for one will not buy it.
"I got Dominic into this, Alex. Look what happened to him."
Feuilly shook his head, and growled a little. "You can't say he didn't fully understand what he was getting into, Perceval. We all know the risks."
Before Perceval could reply to that, Eugene found the other broken rib, and there was a particularly sharp gasp from the wounded man. Yes, yes. Well done. Breaking your ribs hurts. Don't you ever do this for my sake again! "This is going to hurt, Perceval," Eugene added out loud rather redundantly. "You've broken at least two of your ribs again."
Feuilly pulled over another chair and sat next to Grantaire and placed a hand on his arm. They exchanged looks, warm and apologetic and forgiving at once. Grantaire smiled faintly and inclined his head and Feuilly patted his arm in response.
"Can you please at least try to be more careful with yourself?"
"I could try."
"I'll settle for try."
Eugene felt as though he were intruding on a strangely private moment and continued to check carefully that there was no penetration of the fractured or broken ribs into Perceval's lungs. You strange man. You change from Perceval to Grantaire to Scaramouche seemingly at whim. One moment you are moping because Augustin has scolded you, the next you are coolly winning a boxing match against Bahorel of all people and then after that you walk into a lunatic asylum (one does have to say that one suspects you might not feel so very ill-at-ease there) in a costume... with a mask and a damned sword... and exchange insults happily with a man who wants to kill you. Who are you really, behind all your masks and acts? Which man is the man? Eugene looked up into his friend's tired, pained face and said quietly, "We don't want you getting hurt."
"And we outnumber you," Feuilly added.
Perceval chuckled weakly and then winces. "That's the truth."
Fine. I'll settle for that. Eugene began to bind Perceval up carefully. "Il Dotore says not to bust them again, hmm?"
Both men gave him surprised, amused looks and nodded as though to say that they agreed this was indeed the perfect name for him. And voila, Maman, I have a secret codename and am apparently sort of adopted into a masked band of vigilantes on top of my extra-curricular activities as a republican activist. There are some things which will not be making it into my monthly letter home. Eugene shrugged and replaced Grantaire's shirt – determined that his collarbone was fractured, put the affected arm in a sling and cleaned the cut on his head. Well – we do what we can, Capitain.
"Just us left," Feuilly said abstractly, settling himself so Perceval could lean against him and close his eyes. "Only the three of us left standing."
"Two," Eugene said dryly, watching Grantaire's eyes finally close in exhaustion.
Feuilly sighed. "So I see." And he carefully brushed some of the man's tangled hair away from his face. It seemed almost symbolic, a lifting of a mask, a concession of humanity.
"Do we just leave them here for the night?"
"You can," Feuilly said. "I'll be staying."
Eugene smiled a little. That was – oddly comforting after the terrors and stresses of the day. "Of course. The League always sticks together, eh? I feel I am needed elsewhere." Probably. Unless by magic chance he's asleep too.
"Mmm." Feuilly was looking at Perceval and in fact hadn't stopped doing so since they'd started patching him up. "Just before you go… thanks for sticking around. We're not entirely self-sufficient yet, as you can see. Probably never will be."
Self-sufficient from the rest of us, mon ami? I sincerely hope not. God willing we'll get this – split – behind us soon. "Goodness, Alexandre. You've rescued me several times now. A little patching up is the least I can do."
"You know what I mean," Feuilly smiled and shrugged. "Sticking by us in general."
There were many things Eugene wanted to say to that. Many things about equality and brotherhood, about their friendship together and companionship in the common goal of the freedom of France. He wanted to speak on the future and on truth and on the strange duality of man, on the fact that Augustin should not really be the last left unaware of Perceval's true identity as their sometime saviour, even though he could understand that Perceval himself did not want their leader to know of his activities. He wanted to point out that there should never have been a time when wanting to help each other would lead to a break in friendships.
But in the end he looked around at the tired, sleeping, hurting men who had put so much on the line and simply shook his head. "Vive le ligue, I say."
And he left them there together.