He used to dream of France as a beautiful Republic. Back when he treaded the safe, polished halls of his university and lived off of the books he read.
Now nightmares fill his days and nights, consume his mind. He knows he's doing a good job of hiding his inner torment because no one seems to notice or comment.
He walks the streets with new eyes, as if seeing everything for the first and last time. He's always known that he wouldn't live to grow old. If someone were ever to ask, he wasn't sure he'd be able to explain this odd feeling inside him...like the days that fate had allotted him were considerably shorter than everyone else's. Maybe that was why he refused to bother with the trivial. He was born with a burning passion, a flame that is tended to and kept burning each and every day. That fire, once empowering and beautiful and bright, is now threatening to burn him alive.
He is a living torch, an all-consuming flame, guiding the way, lighting the path for others, yet slowly dying. Slowly burning away...
Hope is something unfamiliar for her. She isn't quite sure exactly how it wormed it's way into her heart, figures it must've happened sometime when she started attending Marius's meetings and filling her head with the curly-haired leader's inspiring words.
But there was no doubt that it was there. A tiny sliver of hope. A hope that perhaps these silly boys could do something after all. Perhaps they could make some sort of small impact on the poor lives of those around them. She tried convincing herself it was all a waste of time, just a game for rich young boys to play, nothing to concern herself with.
But then their leader, the man who shone like a million stars ablaze - no, like the sun itself -, opened his mouth and converted her with promises and dreams and ideas of a future that seemed practically impossible, almost unattainable.
How did this happen? How did you manage to light a fire within my soul, Monsieur?
The Les Amis settle down for the night, their songs wafting into the cafe. Words sung with foreboding. Lyrics laced with tenderness and fear and love. Songs of friendship and farewells.
Drink with me to days gone by. To the life that used to be.
The doors of the cafe are swung open and she stands in the entrance, one foot inside, the other on the cold cobblestone. She listens and watches, chilled by the strangely sad melody that the men now sing.
And then she hears another voice joining in. Quiet. Pained. Yet...beautiful. It comes from the alley, on the opposite side of the cafe wall. She peers around to see which unfortunate soul lends his voice to the choir of students and nobles. She spots his golden curls first and instantly recognizes him. Their strong and passionate leader, his back against the alley wall, eyes haunted in the darkness. She can't help but wonder why he isn't out on the barricade with the rest of his friends.
"Will the world remember you when you fall?" He sings softly into the night. "Could it be your death means nothing at all..." As his voice trails off, he winces and clutches his upper right arm.
She takes a step forward, knowing the look on his face all too well. The look of stifling pain. She's seen it many a time on the faces of the poor. He's hurt.
"Monsieur," she whispers as she approaches, careful not to startle him. He looks up at her beneath furrowed brows and squares his shoulders. She's not sure if he knows who she is, but she offers her help anyway. "Let me have a look at that arm."
He frowns at her, his eyes absolutely scrutinizing.
"It's just a minor scrape, that's all." He assures her.
"More than a scrape, Monsieur. I was there at General Lamarque's funeral this morning. I was there when one of the French guardsmen rode by on his horse and slashed at you with his sword." She recalls the memory, recalls how no one else had witnessed the attack. No one else watched as he made a make-shift bandage and tied it around his bleeding arm before anyone could notice. Obviously it hadn't healed as quickly as they both thought it would.
"You..." He struggles for words, for questions. She was there? She had seen? Who was this girl?
"Please. Let me see to that wound." She insists.
"It isn't so bad." He replies, but he can't sway her. She looks him dead in the eye.
"Can't have the leader of this revolution bleeding to death."
When he hesitates, she takes him by his good arm and gently leads him back to the cafe and he doesn't resist.
It's late. He's exhausted himself, unable to resist the young gamine's offer of help. He sits, slumped in a chair by the corner, near the fireplace. He's only vaguely aware of her telling him he'd have to take his red jacket off and roll up his right sleeve. He's even less aware of himself slowly following her instructions.
When he hears her sharp intake of breath, however, he becomes alert. He looks down to see what she sees and suppresses a shuddering gasp as he stares at the festering wound, a cut that goes deep into his skin and muscle, dried blood sticking to his skin.
"I'm no expert, but the best thing to do would be cleaning it up with a bit of alcohol." She says in hushed tones as she gets up to grab some of Grantaire's leftover liquor. He distracts himself from the injury by watching her move across the room, suddenly finding her familiar.
"You're not one of the barmaids, are you?" He mumbles as she sits beside him. She shakes her head, holding a rag in her hands.
"Roll your sleeve up some more."
"Aren't you-" His voice comes out funny and stiff. He clears his throat and tries again. "Aren't you Marius' shadow?"
He can tell she's offended by the sharp look in her eyes as she waits for him to get his shirt sleeve out of the way.
"Eponine." She curtly corrects him, soaking the cloth in alcohol. "And your name, Apollo?"
"Apollo?" He looks at her, a corner of his mouth turning up into a smile. "Curious nickname..."
"But very fitting, even you'd agree." She responds, tucking the black waves of her hair behind her ears as she concentrates on her task.
"I didn't think you'd-" He stops himself before he insults her again. But she knows what he was about to say.
"Didn't think a street urchin like me would know much about Greek mythology?" She looks up at him with a frown.
"Forgive me, I didn't mean..." He doesn't know what else to say, never having been good at conversing with the opposite gender. He studies her for a moment, the curve of her nose, the light sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks, her dark complexion, her deft hands working skillfully. "They call me-" She presses the cloth to his wound and he winces in pain. "...Enjolras." He manages to say with a clenched jaw.
"And why have you not asked Joly to fix you up, Enjolras?" She sounds more and more like his mother.
"Joly was busy taking care of others more seriously injured." He says as pain shoots up his entire arm.
"I'd like to know your definition of 'seriously injured'..." She mumbles, pulling the bloody rag away. "Mon Dieu...I didn't think the god of light could bleed so much."
They say no more as she finishes her task of cleaning his wound. Somewhere along the way, Enjolras dozes off. She can only guess at how tired he must feel, knows that these boys haven't had much sleep once their revolution suddenly began gaining momentum. She puts the rag away once his wound is cleaned up, finds a clean sheet and rips a piece from it, ready to make him a new bandage. Her gaze wanders to his sleeping face as her hands wrap the cloth around his arm. His golden curls fall onto his forehead, partially covering his eyelids. The yellow light in the cafe casts a glow on his strong, sharp features.
A sleeping angel, she can't help but think.
She tightens the bandage and begins to roll his sleeve down, her fingers gliding down his smooth skin, across the newly formed muscles on his arm.
Poor bourgeois boys. So unused to manual labor. What a change this life must bring to you.
She studies his hands and fingers, still soft and white. Looks at her own, dirty and calloused and rough.
"There. All done." She whispers to him, knowing he doesn't hear her.
She places a hand on his cheek and leans in slightly.
"The worst is over, Apollo." She hopes her words ring with truth.
He stirs at her touch, mumbles a quiet "thank you" with closed eyelids and she walks away feeling like a liar.