The barricade was composed of all types of furnishings—be it a spinet piano, obliterated by the force it had taken to bring it crashing against the cobblestone street, or a splintered bed frame, leaving slight evidences of vandalism from its previous owners. It made Eponine wonder if any of these items held sentimental values at all, and if yes, why waste them now? All those years of treasuring those wooden equipments, only to be squandered in vain by schoolboys that promised equality?
Although the idea of rebellion and overthrowing the government was music to Eponine's ears, she found herself doubting the red-blazered revolutionary leader's outlook. What of the lives that would be neglected in this one fight against the higher-ranked society? What of Les Amis de l'ABC's loved ones? What of the rest of France that would remain unaware of this rebellion after every single man complicit in this was shot dead? What of it all?
Still, while pondering, Eponine swallowed hard as a gunshot pierced the night, a night embowered in suspenseful quietude that spoke more than any speeches could. Death was a possibility indeed. In fact, death crossed every single henchman's tangled thoughts. Death was nearer, right across the barricade. Death was the poisoned minds of the National Guards.
Eponine felt herself shaking along with the slight precariousness of the barricade. Her face felt hot, almost as if she was running a fever, but she knew this was fear she was experiencing. A fear of what, though? Eponine shook her head in disapproval. She mustn't be so alarmed if she had no purpose anymore. As her heart pounded faster, she clutched at her pistol until her palm hurt from the pressure. Tonight, death and life would encompass everyone, and it wouldn't matter.
However, she saw two men in danger of being put to death; Marius Pontmercy and Enjolras. Eponine had a mere few milliseconds to decide who to rescue, and it was a decision she'd decided long before. It was quite simple; she clambered up the barricade, reaching and swerving the mouth of the rifle until it completely tore its bullet into her flesh. A small gasp could be heard, and quite soon she was sprawled on her spine, twitching as a new level of pain rang through her; it rattled her bones, the agony. Still, she let not even one shriek escape her chapped lips. She smirked, bittersweet.
"Eponine!" someone yelled, one of the wide-eyed revolutionary leader's. His voice was tainted with worry, and Eponine's vision began to decline. She heard from many tales that when death was impending, the first sense to go was taste. Then it was smell next. Then the sense of touch. Eyesight. And lastly, hearing. This impending death confirmed so.
"Don't you fret, monsieur. I refuse to perish in vain. I hope I've shown my loyalty well."
She chose this pathway, to save Enjolras, for she was hoping to face death along with Marius. How wrong she was.