love of mine, one day you will die,
but i'll be close behind.
i will follow you in to the dark.

x

"Took you long enough."

Enjolras squints up at her. The brightest of lights is shining from behind this mystery figure, and it's near blinding. "Bah." he says distastefully as he tries to shield his eyes from it all, and her laughter wafts past all the white. It is a rough, grating laugh; a familiar one. He had heard it before. (In the corners of the Musain, skidding down the cobblestone of his Parisian streets.) His eyes adjust.

Éponine Thénardier looms over him. She still looks as he recalls; all dirt and grime and street urchin pride; but there's something about her now that is different. The tug of her smile. The sadness in her eyes. (Had it always been there, Enjolras wondered.) It takes a moment for Enjolras to remember.

"You're dead." he mumbles. It is a stupid remark, but it's all his head can comprehend for now. She seems to accept this, though. She plops down next to him, revealing nothing but endless whiteness behind her. "Aren't we all, monsieur?" she manages to joke. (Good as dead, he thinks to himself.) Again, with that hoarse laugh. Again, with that lopsided smile. Enjolras wonders how she's okay with this all.

Propping himself up doesn't take much effort. It's the wondering where the hell he is that has Enjolras a bit more lost than usual. "How did I-?" Enjolras' voice cracks. He tries to remember. (He fails.)

Éponine understands. She nods sympathetically in a general downwards direction, and Enjolras follows her gaze to what seems to be a moment frozen in time: him, hanging over the window of the Musain, clutching the flag of the revolution in one hand. He spots the bullet holes in his chest, and instinctively reaches up to his own torso to check if they're still there. (They're not.) Execution, Enjolras thinks distastefully.

"A hero's death." Éponine says with a dark chuckle, as though she's read his mind. She's pulled her legs up to her chest and is staring down at her own moment in time. Enjolras had been there- had taken away the torch from Marius' hands when he threatened to blow up the barricade, had watched Éponine comfort Marius to her last dying breaths. She had been the first casualty of the night. Enjolras helped move her in to Grantaire's arms.

(It was not that Éponine was too heavy for Enjolras to carry- if anything, she was malnourished and as light as a feather. But it was in that moment that he realized he simply could not bear the weight of his revolution. Enjolras bore that thought of cowardice until his own passing.)

"You died a hero as well." Enjolras offers up. She lets out a indignant snort in response. "A hero?" Éponine echoes shrilly. "If anything, I died a lovesick fool!" The fierce features of her face soften as she gives her own words some thought. Enjolras watches, slightly panicky, as Éponine's face scrunches up, looking as if she might begin to cry. (Enjolras was never any good for comfort.) She composes herself, though; takes a shaky breath and looks Enjolras dead in the eye.

"Grantaire came with you." she says factually, and something in Enjolras shifts. "Him too?" he asks quietly. Éponine gestures towards another scene below them, and Enjolras watches from inside the Musain. Enjolras watches as Grantaire shuffles drunkenly past the guards; watches how the two friends share a look of understanding; watches as they stand side by side, and how he raises his flag one last time. Long live the Republic! Grantaire, in all his intoxicated glory, had proclaimed. Finish both of us at one blow, he had challenged. (Do you permit it? he had asked Enjolras.)

"Marius is the only one who got through." Éponine whispers, a tinge of regret seeping through her tone. The two of them watch, bitter in their own right, as Marius laments in the Musain; he is heavily bandaged and limping, but he is alive. He is alive, and he is alone among their room's empty chairs and empty tables. Éponine shuts her eyes when he cries out. Enjolras hears him. (Enjolras forgives him.) Desperate to ground himself, Enjolras reaches out to clasp Éponine's hand in his, and they sit in silence as Marius weeps about their last communion.

Eventually, the scenes below them fade, and they sit in silence. Enjolras is ashamed to admit to himself that he hadn't really cared much about Éponine on the land of the living; didn't even remember if her real last name was Jondrette or Thénardier. Then, she always been nothing but Marius' shadow; Gavroche's sister. Here, though, she was comfort. Familiarity. A guide, even. (Enjolras waits for her to calm herself.)

Eventually, Éponine's eyes flutter open. She presses her palm against Enjolras' and flashes him a thin smile before scurrying to her feet. "Why are you here?" he asks, no longer able to contain his curiosity. "Because I'm dead." she answers with amusement. "I thought that was obvious, monsieur." "No, I mean- why you?" Enjolras tries to clarify. (He hopes she won't be offended by his phrasing.) Once again, Éponine understands; for the first time in the past few moments, she looks abashed. "Because I waited for you, monsieur." she says after a pregnant pause. "The marble man. All your boys came before you; you knew they had gone already, even though you hadn't seen them all fall one by one." She fell silent for a moment, and Enjolras couldn't reach the words to fill the quiet. How could he? She had no intentions to blame, but the guilt still simmered in the pit of his stomach. All your boys, she had called them. And they were- the Les Amis de l'ABC. His boys.

"I saw them, though. I let them on their way once they'd had an ounce of peace." Éponine continues thoughtfully. "Let me tell you, monsieur- Grantaire?- he wanted to stay with you 'till you awoke." A soft laugh. "'Till life and death, that boy is. Ah, but anyways... I'm here because we are each other's peace."

Enjolras stares blankly up at her. "Wash my blood of your hands, monsieur." she advises, and the guilt inside Enjolras ebbs slightly. "I died for love. Not for your revolution." Enjolras can't help the chuckle the slides past his lips, and he is relieved to hear Éponine giggle a bit as well. "Your boys- your men- they would have followed you anywhere. But their deaths was beyond you, monsieur-"

"Enjolras."

"Excusez-moi?"

"By God, Eponine, we've passed on to another life. I may be a little belated, but, please; no more of the formalities."

"Fine. Their deaths, Enjolras," (Enjolras quite liked the way his name sounded on her tongue. She had a voice roughed with whiskey, but when she said his name, it rolled right off. Like honey, Enjolras finds himself thinking fleetingly.) "was not your fault. They chose to fight."

"They're waiting for you." Éponine assures him fiercely- scolding, almost like a mother- to which Enjolras glances away and tries to blink the tears out of his eyes. (Even a man of marble cracks at times.) "And it is only until you come to terms with that will you be able to cross to the afterlife to meet them."

"I understand." Enjolras replies hollowly. "You understand," Éponine repeats. "But do you forgive yourself?"

(Enjolras sees in his mind's eye the Les Amis. Joly and his jitters, and his thick study books on medicine. Courfeyarc and his women, and his concealed fear of the revolution. Gavroche and his arrogance, and his laughter that echoed in every meeting. Grantaire and his skepticism, and how he'd look up at Enjolras and proclaim What a fine statue!. Combeferre and his philosophies, and how he lead by Enjolras' side. Feuilly and his fans, and how he was ever generous to whomever he met. Jean Prouvaire and his rich blood, and the love everyone had for him. Bahorel and his wit, and the fact he was most dedicated during their meetings. Lesgle and his misfortune, and the oldest of them all.)

"You tell me you saw them before they passed on. H-Have they..." Enjolras trails off. He refuses to look up in fear of seeing Éponine's reaction to his meltdown, which is why the feel of her hand on his cheek jostles him to his senses. She's gotten down to her knees. It is not the sudden intimacy that shocks him. It's her grin; sympathetic and assuring and pained all at once; that terrifies Enjolras. (How could survivor's guilt be possible for someone who died as well?) "Have they forgiven me?" he finishes, afraid of the answer.

"They never blamed you." she says quietly,

and the man of marble breaks.