Kinship

She remembers the first time she saw him.

It was a windy afternoon, and Papa had sent her off with a letter to some philanthropist or another, to try to fetch some francs. She had been crying, because Papa had just killed the little bird that had begun nesting outside their window.

"It's a nuisance," he had snapped, as Azelma had buried her face into Maman's lap. "And now we've got something to eat, provided your sister can bring us some firewood."

And as Azelma had watched the little bird, twisted all at the wrong angles, it seemed that her heart seemed to twist at the same points.

A nuisance, she thought, and felt a kinship with the dead creature.

Clearly Papa agreed with her- he was the one who told her she was a nuisance, after all- for he had shoved a letter into her hand and pushed her out of the doorframe as Maman protested.

"Leave her alone!" Maman had said fiercely, trying to take Azelma's hand. Azelma wasn't sure whether or not she should reach back. "Why don't you send Eponine instead?"

Azelma wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or resentful for her mother's tendency to offer Eponine up for tasks. She knew what Papa thought, though, and he made his thoughts clear each and every time-

"This girl's more useless than a sack of dirt!"

And when Maman began screaming at him, and the toddlers began crying, Azelma had buried the blurred image of a quietly beating bird within her chest and fairly ran into the streets.

It wasn't a terribly cold day, to be fair, and it was autumn, so the sun was still out. It stared down upon her, rays emanating judgement through the cloudy glare, and Azelma placed a hand to her brow to shield her gaze from the light.

Too late, she realised with sinking horror that she must have released the address from her clutch.

Already she could feel the judgmental gazes.

"Useless"- that would be Papa.

"That's your sister?" – with a raised eyebrow and a quirked smirk that could only be mocking. 'Parnasse, to 'Ponine.

"Ma chérie," – uttered with that small, disappointed sigh, and that sharp, burning sympathy Azelma found she almost could not stand. Maman.

But worst of all, she could feel 'Ponine's scornful gaze. She felt an angry blast of steaming shame as she knew, instinctively knew, that 'Ponine would laugh at her for weeks afterwards, lord it over her whenever 'Ponine managed to scavenge something and she, Azelma, failed. And then, worst of all, 'Ponine would forfeit whatever it was that she had scavenged or fought for, tooth and nail, to give it to Azelma. Like that piece of bread, which had been her supper yesterday. Like the shawl she now clutched about her. Like the very chemise she had not changed for weeks.

Something dark flew into her, or she flew into it, and as she stumbled sideways she glimpsed the figure of a man, felt a small flutter of papers hurry by.

"Sorry, M'sieur!" she gasped, her eyes wrenched from the uneven cobblestone of the Latin Quarter. "I'm so sorry, M'sieur!"

Wishing that she was as skilled as 'Ponine at escaping, her eyes darted around the roads, but there was no easy escape, and a cart was blocking the only archway that she could have conceivably ducked to with minimal notice. No; she would have to face whoever it was that she had run into.

Drawing herself up, and forcing her gaze above ground level, Azelma cleared her throat.

"M-"

"Oh, child," a kindly voice interrupted her, "it's no worry. Were you in a hurry to go anywhere?"

Gaping slightly, Azelma stared at the man she had bumped into.

He was young, she thought, probably not much older than 'Parnasse. But he didn't dress like 'Parnasse, his coat was frayed and his scarf looked like it had a hole in it. She glanced down, and saw the scuffmarks on his shoes. But his face was clean and shaven, and his hands looked clean (not like hers, she could almost smell the grime from here). Tucked under one arm were two fraying old books. (She thought she glimpsed the titles: one had something to do with Rights and Man, and the other, to do with Poland. But why would anyone read anything about Poland? Probably it was that she wasn't very good at reading. 'Ponine always told her that.)

Papa would say that he was useless, a useless student. She could hear his scornful tone, and wondered whether she should filch whatever sous were in his pocket (she doubted he had francs)- but something held her back. Perhaps it was that he had sounded so nice when he spoke to her, even if he had called her "child".

"I'm not quite a child," she said, but her voice was muffled and he blinked, confused.

"Pardon?"

"I said I'm not quite a child," she repeated, her voice thin and high but audible. Inside she felt something stir, feebly beating tired wings. "M'sieur."

The man smiled and laughed, and his laugh reminded her of the happy song the bird used to greet her with in the early hours of day. His eyes, too, were friendly- slightly lopsided, but very clear and bright and a lovely shade of brown.

He might not be pretty, she thought, and he mightn't be anything like the baron Eponine spoke of, but he looked nice. She liked nice.

"Well then, Ma'mselle, what is your name? Feuilly at your service." He touched his cap briefly.

Ma'mselle.

"Ma'mselle," she whispered to herself, tasting the sound. "Ma'mselle."

She remembered, distantly, playing with a cat by a warm fireside; wearing ribbons in her hair and always having food, having pretty dresses and stockings and shoes. And it hadn't been a luxury then, it had just been life. She had always had those things, at one point, and she had never thought that she would lose them.

"Ma petite chérie," Maman would call her, and kiss her tenderly.

"Ma'mselle?"

Oh yes, Azelma thought dimly, there had been a question attached. Her name?

"Azelma," she murmured, and could have kicked herself. Papa would never forgive her for giving her first name. She must lie now, must not give away their surname, or he'd never let her back!

"Azelma," the man named Feuilly said, and smiled thoughtfully. "It's a pretty name, a different name."

"Maman took it from a novel," Azelma said without thinking, and clapped her hand to her mouth.

You say the silliest things, Eponine-in-her-head smirked in a superior way.

But before any silence could fall, Feuilly laughed again.

"That would explain something," he said, the smile creases still visible on his face. "Now my Maman, she is France, and the name she has given me is something rather more normal."

"Your Maman is France?" asked Azelma uncertainly, her eyes darting around the street once more. A man looked as though he was heading for the cart, and if he did enter and leave, then perhaps she could run away then?

"Yes," Feuilly said excitedly, "and She is my sister, my child, too!"

Azelma wondered whether he was quite all right. Looking nice was deceptive, after all- she and 'Ponine had both thought 'Parnasse looked nice, but she knew more than anyone else the scars and bruises 'Ponine had after she'd spent the night (or afternoon) with 'Parnasse.

"- Say," Feuilly was continuing, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, "can you read?"

Read? Where had that come from?

"Ah- a little," Azelma said hesitantly, anxiety beating through her windpipe. "But I'm not very good at it, 'Ponine is much better, and I-"

But Feuilly had already placed down a bag to pull out the book under his arm, cradling it in both hands.

"Here, Azelma," he said, excitedly, "can you read this paragraph?"

She took the book, cautiously. It had been years since she had held a book.

"Man is born free," she read, hesitantly, "and everywhere he is in chains. One thinks himself the master of others, and still remains a greater slave than they." She looked up, bewildered. "M'sieur-"

But M'sieur Feuilly's eyes glowed, as warm and pulsing as the song of the little bird (now dead and waiting to be roasted). It both comforted and frightened her.

"If you come back tomorrow," he said excitedly, "I will explain. But it is getting late- the sun is setting."

With a little cry, Azelma cast her gaze towards the sky. The sun was burning across the edges of the bruised sky, all the while sinking- sinking- beneath the dark waves of the clouds.

Papa! she thought wildly.

"M'sieur," she said, without thinking, "d'you know anyone who might spare a franc or two? I'm looking for a man-"

Something in M'sieur Feuilly's face creased.

"Do you know his name, Ma'mselle?"

"I don't know!" she cried wildly, and tears rushed into her eyes. "Oh, M'sieur, do you know-"

She felt rather than saw him take her hand, press something into her palm.

"Here, child," she heard him say, "take this." Then, softly (so that she almost thought she imagined it), "It's more honest than a biscuit."

Startled out of tears, she blinked and raised her head, but he was already disappearing down the darkening streets.

Briefly, she glanced down at her tightly clenched fist and counted three francs.

Papa would not beat her for that, she thought, wild relief beating and relaxing, falling into comfortable quiet. Three francs! That was three more than they had had last week.

There would be a fire, and a meal. And maybe even a new chemise!

And it was more honest than a biscuit.

Monsieur Feuilly, she thought. What a strange man he was, with his heavy books and his argot. And all that talk of France! She didn't understand. But all the same, he was nice.

She hurried home beneath the flickering streetlights and the small, still crescent, the three francs pressed tightly to her heart.

A/N: Happy new year! This is just a little idea I've had kicking around in my mind for the past year or so, but it so happens that my muse only decided to kick in and start working on this when I had promised to write another fic from a completely different fandom. Such is life. Any reviews would be welcome :)