Disclaimers, Warnings and Authoress' Notes:
Obviously, none of the characters are mine, etc. They belong to the genius that was Victor Hugo. This is merely a story parallel I wrote in my last year of highschool (two years ago) for an English project. It was done in a bit of a hurry so it's not in its best shape. One of the characters is a bit OOC to. When I have time I promise to come back to this story and edit it. And possibly post an extended, more fleshed-out version.
Heroes of the Gloom
What is change? Is it fate? Is it time? Is it God? Is it Satan? Perhaps, in a way, it is all of those.
For God has cast us all into the vast river of Time in which Change flows. It is the rocks beneath it and rising from it. It is the bends and wends. It is the drops and the cascades. It is the rhythm of the rush.
And we must ford it as best we can in order to meet that ever grand destination, our Fate. We sail in small boats and in big boats. We dive and we swim. We sink and we drown. However it ends, stopping is an impossibility. We can only cling to that which drives us, the salvation of light or the destruction of night.
Change weathers and forms us. Change breaks and makes us. Change leads us to where, when, who and what we should be. Sometimes it acts in little nudges but sometimes it launches you so far that once you've landed, you've quite forgotten where you were before that. It is these colossal changes and what we do afterwards that defines us more than anything else. Do we get up and go on? Do we lie and defeat and wait for death?
And the two people of this tale were asking themselves those very same questions. They were standing in the middle of a bridge, looking down at the rushing of the river below it, lost in the silence of thought. They were at a crossroads both figuratively and literally.
"You must give him his letter," one of them said at last. It was a boy of about nineteen. He was threadbare and yet grand. He had the face of an angel yet his eyes shown with something of the devil's.
"What letter?" replied the girl that was beside him. But no one would have guessed that she was a girl for she was dressed as a boy. She spoke in a far-off manner and she was shaking though it was not cold.
"The letter his pretty lady gave to you," the boy went on calmly, pushing a lock of his curly hair out of his eyes.
"How did you know? Did you follow me?" and just like that, the girl was brought sharply back to reality. For her mind had been wandering before then. But he had struck the match and now her fire had been awoken.
He smiled as he saw her so obviously and so guiltily flustered, her pale cheeks flushed scarlet, her breathing hard, and her eyes glinting dangerously. He had known her for so long and had seen this expression so many times and yet he did not grow tired of seeing it for it entertained him. Her thinking she was something of a threat to one such as he---why, it was ridiculous!
But that is why, perhaps, he stood there beside her still. This strange, ridiculous girl fascinated him and always had. Her fire was her light, her love was her life, and her innocence was her beauty. To one who was ignorant of these things, she was a goddess and he was compelled to worship her and keep her.
"The fighting should be getting bad by now. You must give him the letter. You must save him!" he persisted. For he saw that her light was wavering and he could not have it go out. It must always burn bright, he thought.
"I will do no such thing! I do not know what you speak of!"
And suddenly the girl broke. So much pain was coursing through her frail body. And it was the deadliest pain for it was of the heart. With her trust she had given so much of it away but its recipient did not even know she had placed it so eagerly into his hands. His eyes could only see another. And now she was empty, hollow, bleeding and trapped in indecision. For her friend was right. She had with her a letter and this letter was the key. This letter would bring her love happiness but this happiness did not include her. She did not know if it was within her to bear this kind of pain. But then, not to give the letter would cause the same, if not more of hardship.
"Eponine!" the boy raised his voice and gripped her by her shoulders. Eponine was sobbing hysterically now and her rough voice was breaking. He did not know how to handle her, never having loved and caressed anything before.
"Montparnasse, be quiet and let me be! I say I do not know what you speak of! I say I will not give any letter!" and she endeavored to struggle against his grasp but only to be held tighter.
Montparnasse now looked at her in a way he had never done before. His cold, grey eyes were blazing with something else now… but she did not know what. Then finally he spoke. His tone was no longer nonchalant but fiery like his eyes---fearsome and yet warm. Every syllable trembled with passion.
"Yes you will, Mademoiselle! You will give him his letter! You will save him! For you love this Monsieur! I think you know that well! And he will die! Will you let him die? Perhaps you think you shall! I know you have sent him to die! I know you, Eponine!
"I know that you have told Monsieur Philanthropist to move out! Perhaps you think you shall kill the pretty lady with grief as well if he dies? Silly girl! You cannot!
"How do I know this, you ask me? I know this because I follow you, Epi! I follow you as you follow your Monsieur Marius! And why do I follow you? I do not know but I think I care for you! And though it might make me happy that your Monsieur Marius dies with a hundred bullets through his chest for the pain he has caused you… I know now that he must not die. For if he dies, you shall die. You know it!
"And for my part, I could not bear it if you died! Do you understand me? You would have killed me too! So you see, you are to have four lives severed by your hand; his, hers, yours and mine! So you must give him his letter, Madamoiselle! I entreat you to give him his letter! Do not let it end this way! There is salvation to be had for all of us!"
And Eponine was stunned into silence. Tears continued to flow down her cheeks and yet she could not find it within herself to make a sound. Her eyes were wide, staring into Montparnasse's own. He, in turn, did not look away. He held her fast even though he knew she would not run. They stood that way for what seemed like an eternity until the words that Eponine had just heard so zealously spoken before her, sunk into her heart, soul and mind.
Sometimes it takes a long time for us to accept what is right. But when someone is so desperate, so empty, and so lost, acceptance rushes in like a flood. It is as if they were stranded in darkness for so long and then they see a tiny light shining in the distance. They will not think to question it. They will simply run to it, their every fiber filled with the desire to reach it. That is what Eponine began to feel.
"You---you are a booby!" she cried out, and she fell into Montparnasse's arms. She continued to cry but she knew they were the tears of goodbye. She would have to go for he was right---she had to save them.
"Indeed, I am. Now go! I shall watch over you!" with effort that did not have anything to do with strength, he wrenched himself out of Eponine's grasp then nudged her in the direction of the barricades. She began to run.
It was in those barricades where men met their end and souls met their beginning. Heroes were made that day through shots of nationalism and stabs of patriotism. And all though they were not soldiers or even insurgents, Eponine and Montparnasse deserved the honor they received, however unheard of.
Their martyrdom came about this way:
Eponine ran through the battlefield with all the agility she could muster and Montparnasse followed closely behind her. They had not stopped running since they left each other's company. They found the strength somehow and the pain of exhaustion did not come to them. But what they did feel was fear. Not fear for themselves but for those they loved.
"Eponine?" Monparnasse called into the desolation at a figure in the distance. He had lost sight of Eponine for a while because she was quicker than he.
But it is easy for those who love us and know us truly to recognize who we are, no matter how disguised we may be. Be it through our own means or by the means nature, they shall always see. For they see more of our soul than anything else. Thusly, in the gloom and the grime, in the smoke and the gunfire, in the screams and the anguish---and in boy's clothing---Montparnasse distinguished Eponine.
"Epi, is that you?" he shouted after her.
But Eponine could not hear him. She had finally spotted her Marius yet discovered a last hurdle to their meeting. She had seen a soldier aim for him with his musket. All her senses were now directed to the prevention of its firing. She had doubled speed so much so that everything seemed to be slowing down. She felt her heart beating in her throat. She felt her eyes grow sharper, focusing like a cat's on her enemy.
What comes next, you must already know. Eponine took the shot for her beloved.
But what you do not know is that afterwards, in blind rage, Montparnasse slit the soldier's throat. Such is the temperament of youth. For this, we cannot fault him. After the execution of the crime, he only felt defeat and none of the triumph of his former bloodlust. He was too late. He had failed. He had never felt defeat so searing.
But Eponine had breath in her still and she endeavored to rise. The soul lends strength to the bones when it sees the promise of eternal light.
"Oh she stirs! Eponine! Eponine!" Montparnasse exclaimed in undiluted happiness. He too breathed again. She was alive! He could see no reason for her not to stay alive. Such are the hopes of those who think they have lost then discover they are not yet beaten.
But Eponine still was not aware of him or his joy. She only thought of reaching her Marius and giving him his letter. Montparnasse wanted to stop her---he wanted her to save her strength---for he had not seen Marius.
But when he understood what she was trying to do, he did not peruse her. And so Eponine gave Marius his letter. And so, Eponine gave them both their deliverance. She expired.
It was Marius departed that Montparnasse went to pay his respects. For everyone shrinks away and lets the spouse mourn first.
"Oh, Epi, forgive me! I have failed you! He has killed you!" moaned Montparnasse, glancing in the direction in which Marius had disappeared to, "He leaves so quickly! He does not even stay to gloat! But then, murderers do not mourn. But ah! I shall pay his due."
He covered her face in kisses. Tears were streaming down his eyes. It was the first time Montparnasse wept.
"Tears are strange. They are bitter." He cradled Eponine in his arms and buried his sobbing face in her neck.
"Stupid girl! Didn't you see his knife? Pretty things like that carry the deadliest ones of all! I have warned you!" But once he had finished this statement, he let out a hollow laugh and said, "Oh but I see you've stabbed me too, evil girl. Presently then, I shall die."
Montparnasse sat there with Eponine until he was discovered by a gendarme and shot. Perhaps if those that saw Eponine's body later on had looked closer, they would have seen him lying beside her with a smile on his handsome face. Perhaps if they had looked closer still, they would have seen a strange light about them.
You ask me now where the hope in this tale is. I shall answer you now. The hope lies in the truth that no one, not even the dregs of society, lives through life unloved. No one lives through life unneeded. No one lives through life without purpose. No one lives through life without the possibility of salvation in heaven.