Also found on the 31 days of Enjonine blog for Day 12!
WARNING: This is a Holocaust AU.
The dark is biting her. That's what it feels like; invisible teeth that sink into her skin and freeze her from the outside in. Her hair barely brushes her earlobes, leaving the expanse of her slender neck open to the cold. Her hands shake as she lights the first candle.
The flame takes immediately, sending shadows dancing over the small space. No longer is it dark, but she is still afraid. She will always be afraid. The match extinguishes itself in her hands and falls to a burnt heap on the ground. The candle glows alone, reflected in her eyes.
It might be way too late to celebrate the holiday, but for Éponine, holidays mean home. It is her first day back here. And, as sad as it is, this closet was the only home she had before her world was ripped out from under her in the most devastating way. Her eyes close; amber no longer reflecting the gold.
For eight days the oil lasted.
For eight days she will wait for them.
…
"They won't bother us, Azelma." Éponine told her sister. "Why would they want France anyway? It stinks here!" She ends the sentence with a tickle to her sister's ribs. Azelma is now far too old to enjoy such teasing, but Éponine catches the flash of a smile before she's pushed away.
"But… what if they do want us? What will happen to you? To me? To the boys?" Azelma sounds far too old for her eleven years. Éponine, with only thirteen under her own belt, just sighs.
"Let's hope that maman and papawill actually do what's right."
Azelma's smile is twisted, ironic and iconic for their generation. "When have they ever?"
….
She returns on the second night. The first candle is still burning, but it's low in the menorah. Éponine just hopes that it will last for however long it takes them to return. Long ago, back when the synagogues were first bombed; a pact was made between them… All six of those who held secrets.
She takes another precious match from the package and scrapes it on the wood of the closet. The room seems both brighter and warmer with the second wick lit as well. She breathes heavily, fancying the sight of her breath sent against the spiraling plumes of smoke in the candlelit air.
Éponine feels it deep within her heart that they won't return. But hope will keep her walking, and so hope shall keep the flame alight.
…
"Gav, you and the boys are gonna go somewhere safe, alright?" Éponine feels her throat constricting. By rules of age, she and Azelma ought to be allowed a spot on the ship as well, but they have no more room. The deck is stuffed with small, forlorn figures who are a few years away from having yellow stars pinned to their hearts. "I need you to get on this ship."
"Will you and 'Zelma come too?" Gavroche asks. He sounds so caring that Éponine is nearly moved to tears. She's close to telling him the truth, once the French army's lines break, Germany is coming to them. And they may not get away.
She breathes out a lie; "Yeah, we're getting on the next ship."
His face lights up, blue eyes aglow and excited,"England, huh? Exciting!" He grabs each of the boys by an arm and tugs them along. As the three reach the gangplank, he turns around and says to his sisters, "I'll see you there, non?"
Éponine watches them with bated breath. As soon as they reach the deck, a sailor blocks the gangplank. The crowd of fugitives cries out in protest, their children held tight to them. A small family fights to the very front. The mother and father hold a toddler between them, barely big enough to toddle on her own two legs.
"Please!" They say to the sailor. "She's small, she won't take up much space!"
"We have no more room. We've hit our maximum. I'm sorry madam."
"Wait!"
Éponine flinches. She knows that voice and what his damn pride is going to do.
"She can take my place!" Gavroche is walking back down the gangplank, the little boys still standing on the deck.
"What the hell is he doing?" Azelma asks Éponine.
"Language!" She scolds. The sailor allows the mother to bring her child onto the ship and hand her to a girl about Azelma's age. Gavroche strolls over to his sisters, a proud smirk on his face. Éponine has half a mind to cuff him.
"Don't worry. I'll just hop the next ship."
"Gav…" Éponine's voice is small as she breaks her brother's heart. "I lied. There might not be a next ship."
…
The third day brings another match to an end as another candle is lit. The first is close to sputtering out; suffocated in the pooling wax. Éponine's just as close to drowning in the tears that rest behind her eyes, refusing to fall until the final shard of hope is torn away from her heart.
With three candles making the space warm and gold, Éponine's eyes catch sight of a discarded item pressed against the floor of the closet. Her bones like glass and her skin like leather, she bends and reaches for it. Her fingertips brush the paper that's nearly beaten into the floor from years of pounding feet. She peels it away and lifts it to the light.
It is exactly what she thought it to be. A simple sketch with complicated shading and intricate lines. A drawing of the Eiffel tower, with a single lettered signature at the bottom. R.
…
"Are you sure this guy will help us?" Éponine clutches tightly to her old friend's hand as he leads her away from the slums and into the nicer area of the opposite bank of the Seine. Grantaire shrugs and squeezes her hand in response.
"He'll definitely help the three of you. Me, though… Back in school, we weren't the best of friends." Grantaire snorts. "That might be an understatement. But the truth remains."
It's been less than a year since France gave in; less than a year since Éponine saw the German Führer with her own eyes as he looked at the sights of Paris as if he owned the place. Which, at that point, he did. As the laws were set in place against them, Éponine and Azelma tried to keep Gavroche still whenever a French gamin, with whom he used to be friends, spit upon his shoe and his religion.
A few nights prior, they watched from the shadows of an alley as their tenement was raided. Not for goods nor food, but for Jews. Their parents were among those taken that night , some of the few French taken amongst the foreign Jews. The Thérnardier children found themselves completely alone.
That is, until Éponine stumbled across Grantaire, a slum boy who rose with the assistance of his talent to gain entry into art school. He was just as alone as the three of them, having been expelled for his non-practiced religion and been shunned for the Hebrew blood that pumped through his veins.
The Sorbonne comes into view, and Grantaire murmurs an address to himself before veering suddenly down a nearby shopping street, crowded with cafes and students. A door is in between the wine shop Corinthe and the café Musain, and it is this door that Grantaire opens, ducking into the narrow hallway that leads to the stairs. They begin to climb.
"Aren't people gonna follow us?" Azelma pipes up. "They're gonna know where we went!"
"Not exactly. I have a plan, my dearest Ariadne." Grantaire answers her. "To escape the labyrinth of the Minotaur, we need your precious string, the quality of which, unfortunately, relies on Enjolras's acting ability."
"Who is Enjolras?" Gavroche asks, and Grantaire winks down at the little boy who clutches onto his other hand.
"You'll see." He says. At this point, he stops their ragtag group of Jews. An old door is placed in front of them. Grantaire raises his fist and knocks. After a few seconds, a young man opens the door, and Éponine's breath is taken away. This man, although he looks to be a very pretty boy, is by far the most beautiful thing she's ever laid eyes on. And this comes from the girl who looks through the windows of the nice hotels to see the ladies prance in their silk dresses and fur muffs.
"Grantaire, what do you-" This boy, Enjolras, looks down and sees the star of David hanging around Éponine's neck (it's the only luxury item she managed to convince her mother to not sell when their life went to hell). He freezes, pink lips still slightly parted. "Oh." He looks around the hallway before ushering them inside. Once Azelma's shoe crosses the threshold, he closes the door behind her.
"We need your help." Grantaire says. Enjolras looks at the Thérnardier siblings for the first time and nods slowly.
"I see that. The streets are crowded, though." Enjolras strolls over to his window, looking out onto the hustle and bustle. He discreetly slides a musty curtain over the glass and turns back to them. "People must have seen you. Give me your bags."
Grantaire looks over at the siblings, who shrug. Gavroche speaks for all of them when he says, "We don't have any."
"This will be easier, then." Enjolras manages a slightly torturous smile. His blue eyes are cold even as they sparkle. "I need you to leave. Return at oh-three-hundred. No one will be about."
"What if they do another round-up?" Azelma asks quietly. "What if we can't get here in time?"
"I won't let that happen." Enjolras says to her, almost kindly. His golden-curled head snaps back up to Grantaire. "I've got a roommate, but it's Jehan."
From Grantaire's relieved exhale, Éponine knows that this is good news. The boy, Enjolras, looks at her closely for a second.
"I've seen you before, haven't I?"
"I don't think so," she says. Surely she would remember seeing such a God… an Apollo in his own world.
"Thank you, mon ami." Grantaire says thickly, clasping his hand on Enjolras's shoulder. Enjolras glares and shakes his hand off.
"No alcohol. And don't thank me for doing what others should." He turns his back to them once more, giving them their cue to leave. Éponine steals one final look at him, watching as his pale hand peels the curtain back away from the window.
..
She's midway through her own personal celebration of Hanukah, and still she remains alone. Éponine barely has the motivation to light the fourth candle, signifying the halfway point. Her lips are chapped as she tries to run her tongue and moisten them in vain. Maybe if she says their names, they'll return to her. Maybe.
It's been far too long. All she wants to do is curl up and die, the way so many others did. She pushed through for them. Every single one of them. And now she sits here in the stale December air. Outside, Paris moves about. It will never change, will it? People falling for the city of love, people moving their feet and pushing smiles onto their faces. Painting lives with their happiness. Ignoring the pain of others, looking down upon the beggars who only want what they think nothing of.
At least Éponine has the dim freedom of the sunlight behind her. Something she longed for so hard. So long.
…
It feels like an eternity of darkness, of pale hands leading hers to form letters. Having dropped out of school as soon as she could think of ways to avoid adult suspicion, Éponine forgot what little literacy she had at the peak of her academic career. Spending time locked in a student's apartment for nearly a year of her teenage life, she begins to learn again. Enjolras, surprisingly, breaks from his cold exterior long enough to act as the caring tutor, showing her the ways to curl the pen and slant the accents. He reads words out loud as she fumbles over them in her mind. She finds it easier to watch his lips than read the words.
Everyone learns things when they're locked from the world. Gavroche discovers how he can creep with the lightness of a feather and sneak up with the surprise of a spirit. Azelma realizes that maybe she's different, and maybe, if Grantaire and Jehan are enough to go by, it's going to be okay. Éponine rediscovers learning. Grantaire and Jehan, they discover what they really want in bed. And Enjolras… he discovers Éponine.
So bright and eccentric for a girl barely fifteen. And beautiful. It tortures him more than he cares to admit; reading so close in her proximity nearly pains him. He can feel the static between their skin and the pulling of their hearts. He also feels her fear, and fuels it with his own careless action. He disappears at night to meet with his and Grantaire's old school friends, all of whom are planning revolution. It's almost funny that Éponine, the hidden Jewish girl, worries for the boy with 'perfect' hair and light eyes.
Cabin fever isn't an issue when they all have an outlet. Azelma reminisces on what she used to ignore about Paris. She loves using her spoken words to paint whispered pictures that entrance Gavroche. Gavroche takes a little bit of everyone, using his ability to maneuver and trick and twist even in such a small space. Éponine reads until her eyes are sore and she writes until her fingers are knotted with calluses. Grantaire draws. Jehan goes out and brings back poetic descriptions for Azelma and Grantaire, and then spends his nights with the artist's deft fingers scoping his back.
Enjolras throws himself into revolution, thinking it's wrong to be attracted to a girl so young and helpless. He doesn't want to coerce her; make her think that if she doesn't let him do as he please he will rid himself of them for good. He doesn't know that she's also scared that he will humor her if only out of his overwhelming ability to have pity.
"Enjolras?" Éponine is nearly asleep from where she's somehow ended up curled against his chest. A book is spread between them, open on a page that both of them could care less about. Enjolras can't move or even think through the blood coursing through his veins at how close, how there she is. He can barely even manage a dim groan in response.
She pulls away from him, and though he feels relief so also he feels regret. All he wants is to pull her close and kiss her, to tell her what she's worth to him. So when she looks up at him through the light of the candle between them (between Jehan's lack of a job and Enjolras's unwilling nature to spend his parent's money, they don't have electricity in their apartment) and her eyes seem golden in the sweet light, he doesn't stop himself.
He kisses her and it's like the world is finally coming together, the continents clicking again and the oceans rolling into foreign surf. The closet where she and Azelma and Gavroche sleep during the night is now only containing of two children as she slips under a bed, feeling somewhat guilty for her siblings who sleep in such a small space. To be fair, Jehan and Enjolras did their best. They dragged Grantaire's mattress from his old dorm room and placed it in the small space and layered it with blankets and pillows. Enjolras and Grantaire replaced the closet door with a double-sided bookshelf, allowing the children on the inside space for storage of what few possessions they've gathered during their stay.
Grantaire and Jehan sleep in each other's arms. As do Enjolras and Éponine. Azelma and Gavroche sleep heads-to-toes. Everyone is happy, everyone is safe.
…
It's the fifth night. Éponine doesn't light the candle at first. Instead she roots through both sides of the bookshelf door, looking for anythingto remind her of Grantaire or Jehan, or Azelma or Gavroche, or… Enjolras. Anything. Give mesomething. She pleads to a divine source. The first candle is still spluttering, the second candle following its footsteps.
Éponine doesn't want to remember the day everything so carefully constructed fell apart. The day of the failed warning. The day she didn't get to say goodbye.
Oh, God… She never got to say goodbye.
…
Éponine is sitting with Gavroche. He is tracing his finger over the chapter name of her newest book. Azelma is nearby, attempting to construct a dreidle out of Grantaire's prized drawing paper, a piece of which he let her have. Jehan is cooking dinner, Grantaire 'helping'. A knock sounds at the door.
"Jehan? Jehan open up!"
"Comebeferre?" Jehan leaves the kitchen and, throwing a warning look back at Grantaire, goes to the door. The four Jews rush for the closet. Éponine stops just long enough to hear of how her Apollo fell from grace.
"We tried to protest… Enjolras… he's been taken. They're coming to search the apartment. You need to run."
Jehan looks back and meets Éponine's eyes. She sees resignation there. "I don't think so."
"Jehan, don't be stupid…" Combeferre seems to be close on the edge. "Do you not have anything to hide, or-"
"Double offence." Jehan interrupts. "Not only are the Nazis looking for those like me, I'm also hiding others. Go, Combeferre. Before they come."
Jehan reaches behind him. The genius named Combeferre sees how they hold hands like siblings and nods his respect to the both of them before turning and leaving. Jehan closes the door behind his friend, breathing heavily.
"Go in the closet, Éponine." He tells her. She shakes her head.
"Maybe… Maybe if they think it's just me they won't look for the rest of them." She tries. Just then, loud voices tinted with German accents come from the streets close by.
"Please, 'Ponine." He pleads. "Enjolras wants you to be safe. Recently, everything he does is for you. For us. Please."
Éponine chokes, but nods and pulls the shelf away from the wall. It swings open to show Azelma and Gavroche huddled against each other and Grantaire trying to take up less space. He has a flask tucked near him. Éponine can't even bring herself to scold him. She takes a place pressed against her family. She's not ready to lose her home, but she's ready to be strong enough to pretend she's okay with it.
Éponine hears yells, spotted through with protests from a voice she recognizes too well. Don't be stupid, she pleads with him. Please, help yourself for once.
The sounds of the police scoping the place is more than enough to make all four of them want their presence to be discovered sooner. And, sure enough, a hand finds the bookshelf and tugs. Light spills over them, and something seizes Éponine around her neck. She hears Enjolras screaming, and the snap sounds loud enough to drown out anything. The Star of David is ripped from her neck, the chain breaking.
"Enjolras," She tries to talk to him, even as she's being dragged away along with Grantaire. Jehan, Azelma, Gavroche, and Enjolras are still being held by officers. "Protect them, please! Gav and 'Zelm-" She's shut up with a slap to her face. The last thing she sees is Enjolras's enraged face, his neck pulled taunt and his eyes wild. His hair is mussed and his lips swollen. There is blood coloring his golden curls.
She doesn't think to tell him that she loves him….
No, she doesn't even think to say goodbye.
…
On the sixth night, she can't light a match. With each match that fails to catch a flame, she says a name.Grantaire. Jehan. Azelma. Gavroche….
On the one named for Enjolras, it takes fire and for a moment the flickering drop of gold reminds her too much of his hair and the passion in his soul. She stares at the fire until it burns its way to her fingertips, startling her enough that she drops it. Éponine watches helplessly as even that one falls to a crisp on the littered, dirty ground.
She doesn't want to think of Enjolras becoming like the match, the way most of the other prisoners did. She wants to think of him burning into eternity, but every flame has its breeze. Every flame must die at some point. Every fire contains a single, burnt reject waiting to be the ruin after the glorious destruction.
The tears that have been waiting to fall finally do, and soon she is curled on the ground, amongst the debris of her failed candle. Éponine is now nineteen years old. Sometimes, she feels like she is ninety instead.
Voices come from the cavernous stairwell that leads to the front door-Enjolras's front door. Éponine freezes, listening carefully. Yes, the one voice is deeper, and the other containing of more injury. But they and their bickering are familiar. Her suspicions are confirmed when she hears the front door open. Her arms quiver as she pushes away from the floor.
She's barely managed to cling to the doorframe by the time that they come around the corner, stopping when they see her. Éponine knowshow poorly the years in captivy have suited her. She knows that her eyes are heavy in her skull, that her bones are fragile and her skin weak. Her hair is ratty and short and her spirit nearly stomped out. Gavroche and Azelma, though…
They look exactly how they would have if the war never came to them. Azelma has grown into a beautiful young girl, long, red hair slightly tangled and black eyes prettily set in their almond shape. Gavroche is tall and lanky; his hair is longer than Éponine's is, but he still has the same crooked smile and slight limp when he puts too much weight on his left foot.
"'Ponine…" Azelma whispers. Gavroche snaps his head to where his eldest sister stands in the doorway. They all are frozen in the cold air for a few moments, time tangible between them.
All three of them break it at once, running for each other and collapsing in a heap of limbs, crying and laughing. "You're alive," Éponine murmurs into a shoulder- she thinks it's Azelma's.
"So are you," Gavroche's voice is that of a man. "We thought you were dead, we-" he chokes up and simply buries himself further into the Thérnardier heap.
Azelma yelps, "Ouch! That's my stomach, you moron!"
"Sorry!" Gavroche responds. In his tumbling to escape Azelma's wrath, he ends up in the open doorway of the closet. He stops and stares. After a while, he finally says, "It's a little late for Hanukah, isn't it?"
"Yes." Éponine says. Her voice sounds hollow, for now that some of them are back, so some of them are missing. And their absence feels like a bullet in her chest. "It didn't feel right to celebrate away from here… Away from-"
"Home." Azelma understands. "It's your fifth night here?"
"Sixth." Éponine says.
"Well, then you got to light the sixth candle." Gavroche says as if it's the most obvious thing. "You said the blessing, yeah?"
"Of course she said the blessing, Gavroche." Azelma scolds him. Éponine feels the empty space of her broken heart begin to fill with melted gold upon seeing how they haven't changed; they have not aged the way she has. "Now let's light that candle."
Éponine hands Azelma the matches, and her little sister lights the sixth candle. Two remain. Gavroche comes to Éponine's other side and slides his hand around hers- for really, he's like a puppy whose paws are too big for his body.
"We still have to wait for them." Éponine says. "Grantaire, Jehan and Enjolras."
"He won't come." Azelma finally sounds the age of the war. Her young voice should be full of light, but now the clouds have risen in her throat and the darkness has seized her heart. "I'm sorry."
"Who?" Éponine knows who. She just doesn't want to think of it.
"Enjolras." Azelma whispers. "He… made a choice. He saved us."
….
Enjolras has a vice-like grip on the hands of the young teenagers. His breath is labored and his feet stumble in the snow. Gavroche is heavy on his feet, nearly falling several times. Azelma is not much better off, and through her panting Enjolras can hear her withholding sobs.
"Hey, we're gonna stop soon, okay? We just need to get to a safe place," he's no good at this 'comforting' thing, but for them he has to try. For her he has to try.
"Enjolras, please-" Gavroche begs. "I'm tired. Can we please take a break?"
"Okay," he relents. Azelma falls to the snow, only to be quickly tugged up again by Enjolras. "Don't get your clothes wet. You'll freeze."
She nods tiredly. Enjolras looks around the barren woods that conceal them. Other than a thick evergreen to their right, they have the wilds of Germany at their disposal. After escaping the train they'd been shoved into like animals, Enjolras and the middle Thérnardiers ran. Bullets peppered the ground behind them, but the risk worked. They may be lost, but they're free. There are worse situations to be in.
Enjolras reaches for a big trunk hidden in the white. He tugs it free of the snow bank, and the sound of the falling snow almost covers the sound of the cocking gun.Almost.
Enjolras spins around to see a man in a familiar beige uniform pointing a gun at Gavroche. The swastika is like a scribble on his upper arm. The man shakes of the cold. Gavroche shakes from fear. The man looks away from Gavroche to acknowledge Enjolras, but pauses when he meets Enjolras's eyes. He looks back at Gavroche, and then Enjolras.
"The two of you remind me of my son." He says in German. They look at him, and he tries the sentence in a few more languages before he finally uses poor French. He lowers the gun. He turns to Enjolras and says, calmly. "You can make a choice, boy. Your life… Or theirs." He tilts his head to where Azelma and Gavroche are now huddled together against the German winter.
Enjolras thinks of Éponine's desperation as she was torn away from him. She begged him to protect them. He can't let her down; it would be unthinkable to do so.
"Them." He says. Azelma gasps, but he ignores her, stepping towards the man's gun, which is now pointed at Enjolras's chest.
"Come with me," The man says gruffly. He takes a hold of Enjolras's arm and yanks him. Briefly, he looks back at Gavroche and Azelma. "I never saw the two of you."
The image of Enjolras being pulled back to captivity, being pulled to his possible death, is the last that the siblings see of him.
….
The three of them come up the stairs together to light the seventh candle. The matches in Éponine's worn pocket are dwindling in number. The flame on the first candle has finally disappeared, leaving the others without a leader. The boiling remains have dried to their holder in the menorah. Éponine believes this to be the beginning and the end- the beginning of a life after the war, and the end of any hope that Enjolras might be waiting for her somewhere.
When they open the door and are promptly mauled from both sides, Éponine still can only notice hisabsence. She exchanges genuine happiness at the survival of Grantaire and Jehan, but still her heart thirsts. Jehan must sense it, for he smiles sadly and squeezes her close.
The four of them light the seventh candle together.
There is one left. One last hope.
…
Éponine stumbles as a free woman. She cries and feels that she owns her tears. Her body is free, her mind is flying, but her heart is chained to the ground at Auschwitz, even while her feet are withered from the final march they forced upon her. With no knowledge of her friends' fates- her family's- there's no way she can ever feel happy until they're all together again. She'll give up her freedom just to spend another year in the cramped apartment with all of them together.
All she can do is hope for the best and try to forget the things she did to survive; to thrive as best she could. Things she thought she'd only do for Enjolras.
The smoke no longer rises from the chimney, but the air has a permanent haze from the souls that rose with the ash of their bodies. There is a gauze over everything; there is dampness in their hearts and doubt in their steps. Freedom seems too good, but nothing else is quite good enough.
Éponine just thinks of them, of their faces, of their eyes. She tries to hold on to the slipping memories of their voices.
…
On the eighth day, a miracle occurs. Having lit the final candle, the five of them stand in the cramped space of the closet, looking upon the glowing menorah. The first few candles have been replaced, and now the light shines as bright as it possibly can. Grantaire's arm is around her waist, Azelma's hand in hers, and Gavroche's back pressed against her front. Jehan stands a little back, but close enough to be in contact with Grantaire, watching as they celebrate…
And mourn.
For, at this point, there is no hope that he is back. That he is alive. That-
"Are we late?"
It can't be possible.
But it is.
A skinny man with shorn golden curls comes into the apartment. With him are two children, both of whom Éponine recognizes as her younger brothers. Guilt flashes for a moment; in the midst of things, she forgot about how she sent them to England for safety.
But… There he is. Alive. Holding a child in each hand. His eyes meet hers, and she breaks, running to him.
Éponine feels as though she breaks him, for when he presses his face into the crook of her neck she can feel his tears.
Nothing else matters; she can live in peace again.
The gift of her hope and her happiness has been restored. By some miracle, they are all together again. She is in his arms. They are happy. The candles are shining.
It is the best gift she has ever received for Hanukah, late or not. It is the gift of them.