A/N Welcome to 'A Different Version of Events'! This was my first multi-chapter fic and has gone through some rewrites and tune ups over the years. ADVOE is currently in the process of a rewrite so my apologies for the wildly differing levels of quality.

If you enjoy, please review!

Chapter One

15th October, 1834

In Saint-Michel most of the buildings were dark, shutters closed against the night like sets of tired, heavy eyelids. Just off from a small market square, closed until the next morning, was a street, roughly cobbled, a thin stream of foul water running down the cracked gutter at the side. The dim flickering of tallow candles from weak slivers that slipped between wooden shutters was the only light here, gleaming off puddles standing in the street.

It was not quiet; it was never quiet here. Raucous laughter from bars and one-room hovels, family fights, and the crying of babies drifted through paper-thin walls, but the street was empty, save for a few hollow-faced strangers with no place at all to call home. They curled, wrapped in filthy rags, into nooks and corners, invisible but for the occasional gleam of their eyes.

The central focus of the street was a rickety, lopsided building which had seen better days. Unlike the other houses, lights blazed from every window and the sounds of revelry were louder. The rough babble rose and fell as the door was opened and closed by people coming and going. The milky green paint of the sign was faded and the yellow lettering was chipped, but the name was still visible: Le Café Musain.

Sound exploded from the café as the doors open once more, allowing a figure to escape the crush of bodies.

It was a man, tall and lean, with a mess of greasy blonde curls. His clothes hung, scarecrow-like, off his body, and the sleeves of his threadbare burgundy coat sat just above his wrists. A leather satchel hung across his body, fastened with thick buckles, and he carried a thick cane of dark wood with a heavy brass handle. He gripped it tightly, peering out into the dark.

An upper window opened and someone, his voice merry with drink, shouted down.

"Good night, Enjolras, sweet Enjolras! We shall meet again tomorrow."

The man in the street, who was Enjolras, looked up. His eyes were cobalt in the light from the café, darkening further as he narrowed them at his serenader. "Good night, Courfeyrac," he said, waving briefly, distractedly, up at the window. He then turned up his collar and gripped his cane tighter before setting off down the street.

The breeze had a bite to it, bringing the smell of cold and rain to the stench of Paris. A weak moon shone between buffeting clouds, flicking the world into a light dark swirl of shadow. Enjolras watched them carefully, tracking the ones that seemed the most solid, the ones that risked being desperate people with knives and clubs. That he had nothing of real value on him would mean little. For the sweepings of the street, hidden under the rug of St. Michel, everything was worth something.

The wind blew again, dispelling the patch of shadow he was sure had been a mother and child curled by a wall. The cold sliced through to his back like a whip and he shuddered. He was a child of the Cote d'Azure, fields of lavender and trips to the warm sea filling his bones. Even after living in Paris for nearly eight years, the coming of winter still shocked him. He would have to buy a new coat before winter, an expense he could not necessarily afford. The generous stipend from his father – a hopeless bribe to bring him home again – had shrunk dramatically since news of Enjolras' rebellious ambitions had reached his parents. He curled in on himself, shoulder blades pushing through the fabric.

He paused at the end of the street, his hand reaching out to brush the dank wall almost tenderly. Here was where they were going to raise a barricade. Here they were going to change the world. June, 1832 – it was a year that was going to be historic.

That was over two years ago.

Brushing the grit off on his faded black breeches, he kept walking.

Their inspiration, their voice in government, General Lamarque, had fallen dangerously ill that summer with cholera. It was a make or break moment for their rebellion, a spark that could have been harnessed to create an explosion. But Lamarque had recovered, though much weakened in both body and position, and the plans of Enjolras and his comrades had never gone into action.

Maybe it had been for the best?

It was a thought so intrusive and foreign he stopped moving, blinking in the thick dark of an alley's mouth. From further down the black stretch, he heard splashing, like footsteps in water. He squinted, hand tightening on his cane, but his vision was struggling to adjust fast enough.

The woman hit his shoulder hard, his only warning the glow of the whites of her eyes. She was running and the force knocked them both to the ground. Enjolras lost his cane into the thick mud at the base of the buildings and he scrambled for it, heart pounding, expecting another blow from behind or the side. He found it and grabbed the shaft with one hand and the handle with the other, twisting and pulled sharply upwards to reveal an inch of the polished steel sword hidden inside.

The woman was still lying on the floor, her breathing ragged, but upon hearing the snick of the sword being drawn she sprang to her feet. He got the impression of wide, terrified eyes and wild hair and then she was gone, running as fast as she could in the direction of the Musain.

Hearing heavy, splashing footsteps coming down the alley the woman had appeared from, Enjolras tucked himself into a doorway, sword still partly drawn. His breath sounded horrifically loud and the slight rattle of his teeth, to him, like a platoon of iron-shod cavalry riding over cobblestones.

Enjolras didn't see the man, for he was sure it was a man, but felt the sheer size of him from the disruption of the air. There was a smell like old sweat, sewage, and harsh tobacco, and then he was gone. For such a big man, he was fast.

A sharp scream, coming from the direction the odd pair had gone, sliced through the dark while Enjolras was still tucked into the doorway. It dipped into silence briefly and then soared again in staccato fragments.

Before he could question his choice, Enjolras ran towards the sound, sword fully drawn in one hand and the cane shaft clutched like a club in the other. Above him a cracked shutter creaked open to show a face lit by candlelight peering out. At the third scream and the glint of moonlight off Enjolras' sword, it swiftly closed again. This final, ominous cry guided him to an alley he would normally avoid at all costs. It was the kind of alley people would disappear into and come out the other side robbed, raped, or beaten up; regularly all three.

He glanced up the street to where the Musain was still brightly lit, music dripping from its windows, but it seemed no one inside had heard anything. Gritting his teeth, he turned his gaze to the yawning dark of the alley and stepped into it, weapons at the ready.

The blow came from behind even before his eyes had adjusted to the dark. A fist like a barrel crashed into the back of his head, sending bright lights across his vision as he dropped to his hands and knees. Both sword and cane fell from his suddenly numb hands and then a boot connected with his ribs. The kick drove a shout from him as he arced into the moulding brick and wood of the alley's side.

Through the shock and pain Enjolras only caught a brief impression of the man's size before a second kick exploded the air from his lungs. The breath he drew sounded more like a sob and he vainly scrabbled through the muck with one hand for the cane or sword or something.

Then there was another yell and a brief scuffle and the hulking shadow was replaced by several different ones all crowded together and a familiar hand grasped his shoulder.

"Enjolras?" It was Combeferre, a lantern in hand, the candle's flame bouncing off his neat spectacles. "Enjolras, can you hear me?"

Enjolras nodded, hand clamped over his stomach, speaking in shards as he tried to breathe. "How'd – how'd you know?"

Combeferre gestured with the lantern towards a scrawny and ragged boy of about fifteen hovering a few feet away. "Gavroche was coming back from an errand for Bahoral and heard you shout."

Nodding his thanks to the urchin Enjolras pointed further into the alley, "I think – there's a woman – she's probably hurt." He found both sword and cane, each covered in mud. After carefully wiping the blade clean on his thigh, he slid the sword away.

"I've found her!" It was Grantaire's voice, for once not slowed by drink.

Despite Combeferre's protests, Enjolras dragged himself upright with his cane and limped to where Grantaire waited. Combeferre followed, crouching to let the light fall fully onto the woman.

Her face was smeared in blood from scrapes and a split lip; her dress was filthy and torn in several places. Her skin, likely to be a warm nutmeg-tone in health, was washed pale except for one eye already swelling into a dark purple. Most alarming was the rapidly growing patch of red spreading across the left side of her chest.

"She dead?" Gavroche peered over Combeferre's shoulder. His gaze was almost impassive and Enjolras wondered how many times he had been exposed to a scene like this.

Combeferre was very grave. "We need to get her somewhere I can examine her better," he glanced around the alley in disgust. "Somewhere clean."

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras. "You live close, don't you?"

"I do," Enjolras said, glancing between his friends. "and since Combefere moved out nearer to the hospital there's a spare bed."

"We need to hurry," Combeferre said. He passed the lantern to Enjolras and then removed his cravat. With careful fingers, he plucked at the sodden dress until the tear lifted from the stab wound. He pulled it wider and stuffed his bundled cravat into the gap before pressing firmly. The action elicited an involuntary jerk of pain from the woman.

"I'll carry her." Grantaire said, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over her.

Enjolras glared at him. "Can you walk straight tonight?"

For once, Grantaire did not give a sarcastic or nonchalant reply. His bluish-green eyes stared coolly back at the blond leader as he rolled up his sleeves.

"As gallant as you may be, Apollo, you look like you can barely carry yourself right now. Gavroche can't. Ferre will need to lead the way and hold the light. That leaves me. Besides, I've done much harder things a lot less sober. Once I won a winner-takes-all fencing tournament while drunk off my ass." He carefully gathered the still, blood-soaked form into his arms. "This will be easy."

As the group departed, Enjolras muttering dire warnings to Grantaire about calling him Apollo, a shadow detached itself from the wall farther up the alley.

His right hand was stained with blood, along with the front of his long, dark coat. He was not unduly worried about the rescue. If the blow to her head didn't kill the girl, the stab wound and the filth would. It would take a miracle and he didn't believe in those.

Turning away, he disappeared back into the gloom, a bringer of Death, his work for the night completed.

His master would be pleased.

Hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Please review - it honestly makes my day.

I'll be updating chapters as I find the time.

Until next time, mes amis!

Libz xxx