A/N: I apologize in advance.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters, if I did, I would be a far more interesting person.

The rain tumbled down in waves as she lay in the gruesome rubble of the barricade. Sight had left her an hour previously and she had reached the point where she could only beg that feeling would leave her too, the throbbing pain in her chest replacing sound with a screaming anger. She had heard people she had almost considered friends die around her. She had heard Gavroche's final words, and then the gunfire that silenced them. If she could, she would've screamed out- begged for someone to save him. But no one would have. Everyone was far more concerned with the bullets flying for the barrels of the National Guard's guns. They were more concerned with a New France, a new life for them all. There was no way to turn back time and even if there were, would anyone truly use that to save some street urchin scum? It was thoughts like these that consumed her mind during the last hours of her life.

And then she heard it.

"Marius!"

Someone, Grantaire? Feuilly? called out his name, and there was movement. If she could have moved, she would have, she would have grabbed for him and held him close. The world was seemingly working against her. The bullet lodged deep inside of her prevented any such movement and the insanity that was slowly taking over her won out. She screamed internally and prayed that she too could go and that at least his death was quick and painless.

She prayed to God that he would be in heaven above. She prayed that although she would never make it to the Golden Gates, she prayed that it would feel like no time until he was reunited with Cosette. And finally, as the last remnants of her broken life left her, she prayed that he would never forget her. The dark encompassed her, and as quickly as she made her last prayer, the world forgot her, damning her to the Heaven she was never sure existed.

There were no bright, shining lights. No glorious music, no singing angels. She was in a room with hard wood floors and flagstone walls. It was chilly, but not extremely so. She assumed that this was Hell. Not that she had been expecting any differently. She had done no right in her lifetime, as far as the good book had ascertained.

Certainly she had done far less bad than the men who had used her and left her broken, bruised and bloody body in the shadows of alleyways. And she had definitely done fewer wrongs than her father and le Patron-Minette, who had sold her into such a life, and who had robbed, extorted and towards the end, murdered the innocents of the streets of Paris.

But still, the other side of the coin that now served to demonstrate the goodness and evils of her life was grimy and rough.

She had been whored out, not by her own choice, but she had still been whored out.

Strike one against her.

She had stolen from innocent people, whether a loaf of bread, or clothing, she had still stolen.

Strike two.

And she had lusted after someone. Oh, it was quick and meaningless, but it was lust, not the feeling of love she had for Marius, but that instantaneous lust she had held for Montparnasse.

It was the golden boy, as she had nicknamed him. And this lust for him had lasted less than a minute, as she had looked behind Marius when he was holding her. She saw the golden boy, pulling his shirt off to create a bandage for the poet. His alabaster skin was glistening with sweat and she couldn't tear her eyes away, even through the blinding pain.

Strike three.

The pain was gone, but the ache in her chest wasn't. It was a dull, pounding ache, one she recognized from every moment Marius had talked to her about Cosette. There was a humming noise, and she adjusted herself so she could hear it better. It was coming from outside the stony walls. But she surmised that she would never find out what that noise was, there were no doors or windows in this room. Her and her thoughts alone. Which, if the reader will excuse the horrific plot device, that has just been used, creates the perfect moment to describe those thoughts.

She had been quite unsure where she was. She had prayed for Heaven, but spent her whole life understanding her afterlife to be Hell. The confusion that followed sprouted from the observation that her body was mended, and she was dressed in the most beautiful silk gown she had ever seen, or dreamt of. It was not something streetwalker trash like her could ever afford. There was more too it too, her hair had been washed and combed, and was now as soft as cashmere. Her face equaled that softness, and the grime no longer cling to her face like barnacles to a boat. But this could not be Heaven, there was no way St. Peter would have admitted her. So she quickly dispelled this theory and instead came to understand that this was Hell, and while she may have felt beautiful, she would have no way to display it, and this room would be her prison for the rest of eternity.

As she had become accustomed to being told in her short lifespan, she was wrong. When she pushed herself off the ground, a door materialized at the far end of the room and, deciding that if this was indeed Hell, she might as well get the grand tour over straight away. She walked towards this newly realized door, and pushed it open with a surprising ease, considering the height and width of the door.

Now, her confusion was heightened. She was at le Cafe Musain, and was surrounded by les Amis de L'ABC. All of them except for Marius. She rechecked her observation. Yes: the drunkard, fan maker, romantic, the charismatic one, Courfeyrac (she knew his name so well only because he was Marius' closest friend and had once housed him), the philosopher, the doctor and the duke, and the one she recognized from the other cafés.
In the centre of all of them, seemingly radiating glory was the golden boy. They were all talking loudly, laughing and chatting away as if it were nothing. Pulling up the skirt of her dress, Eponine approached the drunkard who was on the fringe of the group.
"Salut monsieur, c'est tout d'accord?" She eyed him closely, and reacted similarly when his eyes widened at the sight of her.
"Mademoiselle Eponine, I think I have the right to ask you the same!" She held back a scowl at him, and decided that now was not the time to be fighting with people who may be of assistance.
"Monsieur, I believe I am dead, but what does that make you?"
"Only dead as well, but I ask you because you are sent to where you are needed, and you are of no use here!"
"Ouais, c'est plus vrai, mais, you're a drunk, I don't see how you could possibly be any use either."
"Yes, but this Heaven is a Hell for me; so many dead and no spirits to drink the thoughts away."
"But if they're dead, then are they not here?"
"Look around, mademoiselle, tell me, do you see that younger brother of yours?" There was truth in this, Gavroche was nowhere to be seen. And if this was Heaven where was Marius? Surely she had not been admitted to Heaven where he had not!
"Then this is Hell?"
"It varies from person to person. For someone like Grantaire here, it very well may be, but for someone like me, I find it to be very pleasant." The philosophical one turned to speak to them. Combeferre!,that's what his name was, she had heard it yelled a few times on the barricade.
"So what is this then, is it purgatory?"
"Figuratively, yes. What I have come to believe this is, is a place to right wrongs of the past. Where you fix things that were supposed to happen but never did."
"Mais monsieur, I have no purpose here! I have no relation to any of you unless Marius is here. Which he's not! Where is he?" She demanded this in the spoiled whine she had used so often.
"He is still alive, we are assuming, or else he has other places to right wrongs and none of them are here. "
"I'm here." She muttered angrily, looking down at her bare feet. Combeferre and the drunk (She thought maybe his name was Grantaire, but was unsure and did not wish to risk the embarrassment of being wrong) both looked at her and then each other.
"Well what wrong must I right? Have I been whored out to anyone in here? Was I not good enough for the money?" She spat at no one and nothing in particular.
"I strongly doubt that you have been. But you do raise an important question, all of us have yet to figure out what wrong we have to right amongst ourselves. In complete fairness and in order to save our pride, I only proposed this hypothesis this morning and we only affirmed it at lunchtime."
"Time does pass here then?"
"Mademoiselle, of course it does! You don't understand yet, but we are standing in an exact replica of our world, only with an air of perfection to it. Time passes normally, every thing is the same! But of course, we are not. To find the purpose of our being here is like rediscovering the meaning of life. Who knows when or where we'll find it. Almost like a game of Russian roulette." She had made a face at this remark. It seemed almost crude to make a metaphor about a death-game in the afterlife, but she sweetened herself to this once it registered itself as logical in her mind.
"Is there any means of seeing the real world? The world below-or, or above?" She asked this with an undertone of cowardice to this, as she knew it was highly likely she would dislike what she saw.
"I've been working on that, but unfortunately for all of us, I've come up with no solution. Donc, qui aimerait un peu du nourriture?" The group at large turned to face him, chiming in their sounds of agreement, and Eponine was lost within the mass.