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Reassembling her handguns at the foot of Lookout Mountain, Eponine spotted Joly as he picked his way across the field. “Combeferre,” she said, elbowing her brother sharply in the side. “It seems your son is as much a fool as we.”
Combeferre looked up and the lilting voice of the guitar was cut off as his fingers stilled. Eponine was kind enough to ignore the spasm of pain and sorrow that tightened his lips, watching her nephew and waving when he spotted them instead.
There was silence for a moment when he reached them. Eponine rolled her eyes, tired of their idiocy; her nephew had inherited all her brother’s stubbornness.
“Father,” Joly said, settling down on the driest stump he could find. “Aunt Eponine.” He kissed her cheek and awkwardly offered his hand to his father.
Combeferre nodded and took it, accepting the proffered olive-branch. “Joly. Son. It has been too long.” They fell silent again but the weight of it was gone; here and now in this place harsh words spoken in anger ages ago were water under the bridge.
Laughter rose from the nearly campfire where boyishly handsome Marius courted a pale aos sidhe with hair the colour of ripe straw and Eponine scowled and stood, stalking off in the opposite direction in search of her cousins.
The tension returned in the wake of her departure and Combeferre cleared his throat, plucking out a soft tune as he avoided his son’s gaze.
“What sign of the others?” Joly said, fidgeting with the snake-head of his cane. The lines of the silver shifted under his fingers, wisdom becoming mercilessness with each pass as carved serpents unsheathed their fangs.
Combeferre frowned. “I thought I glimpsed Courfeyrac when Eponine and I arrived, and you’ve already seen Marius.” He glanced over to the circle ofsidhe where Marius was flirting with the Lark under the benevolent watch of her father and his frown deepened. “As for the others,” Combeffere said, “Enjolras showed up just before us and there’s no missing Grantaire.”
Father and son turned as one towards the rock where a familiar figure lay sprawled out on a rock beside several others and a growing pile of empty bottles, shaking their heads as they gave identical smiles. “And Jehan? Bahorel?” Joly asked, frowning.
“I haven’t heard any news of Jehan either way.” Combeferre said, his smile’s light dimming. “Bahorel won’t be joining us. Halloween a decade back there was a frat party where one of the students spiked the whiskey – I’ve never been sure with what.” He lowered his eyes. “It got ugly and things got violent and then the mob turned on each other and poor Bahorel was caught in the middle and crushed alive.”
Joly let out a half-choked sound of protest. “But he can’t be–”
“Who can’t be what?” Eponine asked, settling carelessly down into the wet grass. From the look on her face she’d had no luck finding her fellow huntresses; by the alcohol on her breath Combeferre guessed she’d found Grantaire instead.
Mouthing Bahorel’s name Combeferre reached out and clasped his son’s shoulder, and Eponine nodded sadly and hugged his waist, and for a long time the three sat and gazed in silence at the cloudy summit above.
***
Grantaire was bored.
Glancing beside him where three clurichauns lay sprawled in a drunken stupor on the grass he laughed through a mouthful of wine at the sight of his old drinking partners. All of them had passed out before he’d really gotten started and Eponine had taken her biting wit and left to rejoin Combeferre and his kid.
Lying back he watched the sky turn overhead in dull grey smears; the weather so appropriate it almost hurt. He half-wondered which weather-god had made it along and arranged things – Thor was long-dead, he knew, and Zeus was too busy screwing other men’s wives so maybe Wonambi–
He snorted loudly at the image of the dirty great snake coiled around the mountain’s base on top of them, attracting disapproving stares from a group of seven Chinese men and women wearing the kind of dark suits that are worn in some countries by minor government officials.
Giving them the finger and baring his teeth in a smile at the frosty disdain they returned, a certain tattered figure in the ruins of a burned coat caught his eye.
“Hey! – Enjolras!” Grantaire called, grinning carelessly as the bitter boy with the angelic face turned to him. “How about this weather? If I were you I’d sure be glad I wouldn’t have to fly in this shit.”
Enjolras froze for a moment and clenched his jaw as he bit back his rising temper; Grantaire was nothing that he hadn’t dealt with before and today of all days he knew he mustn’t let the drunkard bother him.
The shape his lips formed had little in common with a smile as he said sweetly, “If you were me I would be glad of it too, because as pickled as you are I don’t know if you can even stand up, let alone walk straight, you useless sot.”
But Grantaire didn’t even seem to care he’d been insulted; he toasted Enjolras with a glass of wine that through luck somehow ended up mostly in his mouth and blew him a kiss with a hoarse bark of laughter.
***
The hours passed but time flowed thick as molasses; it took an age for the crimson sun to sink beneath the mountain’s summit and the night dragged on into eternity.
It was sometime in the early morning when the drizzle started up again, falling steady and damp and cold as they marked the long hours past midnight. The rain was persistent and unused to being denied – it dripped into waterproof boots and beaded under oilskin coats and showed no signs of stopping.
It worsened as the night wore on; growing steadily thicker until it was falling in flat and driving sheets, the air tense with the weight of lightning and thunder to come, tugging at their leashes to be unleashed.
Clad in a shawl of rain-torn mist, Lookout Mountain loomed through the fog and rain as the sky lightened – turning slick and leaden-grey as the first hints of false dawn began to limn the barely-seen horizon – but the whole vista was blurred like a watercolour threatening to run.
Somewhere at the foot of the mountain they had gathered beneath a stand of dripping pines, huddling close around a guttering fire as they argued.
The alchemist Jehan, rich velvet robes from a past century squelching as he moved, said, “The time has come.”
Eponine snorted, the bright moon-silver of her handguns catching the firelight, and shook her head. “Uphill in this mess?” she asked, “In this rain? Give me a killing-field under the moonlight and the smell of blood on the night-breeze; I cannot hunt what I cannot see.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
“Jehan is right,” said Courfeyrac, his face shining and lit from within and his voice filled with passion. “They have slaughtered and starved us for too long – we must fight here and now, together, or we will all be chased down and brought to heel alone.” He was holding a broad-headed spear, the edge so keen it split a pine-needle that came drifting down. “The rain will hide us; dawn will blind them and the sun will burn off the mist.”
Keen eyes stabbed around the circle as Courfeyrac smiled, solemn, and said, “This is it –one more dawn standing between us and safety; one last day standing between us and freedom. Today it is time and this day, this battle, is ours.”
Another murmur, louder and full of deep approval. The sidhe Prince of the Centre had spoken for all of them. The sun was rising, the day breaking and it was time.
“Today it is time to die,” Enjolras said softly, rolling his eyes as he watched them begin to march, proud and determined, up the mountain.
Hearing a chuckle beside him he turned and glared at Grantaire and began to follow in their wake, leaning on a quarterstaff with a tuft of sodden wax-clogged feathers dangling from near the top, the drunkard falling in and following on unsteady feet a few steps behind.