Author's Note: Heyyy. This is my first Les Mis fic and my first ever fic on FFN! This is obviously an E/E fic. I've just been kinda obsessed with them, I had to write something! So yeah, I hope I'm doing things right on this site haha. Hope you enjoy this first look at my fanfic.
I haven't read the book by Victor Hugo yet, so this will mostly be based off the musical, with references made to what I know about the characters.
Disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables, Victor Hugo does!
Time
Sharp pain makes its final mark within the chasmic coldness of his heart. Or so he thinks. It in fact misses by a centimeter or two, just far off enough to spare his life. Those few haunting centimeters. He tumbles to the ground at the feet of an acquainted drunkard — Grantaire. That horrific expression of what only can be named as death gazes into his soul for what seems like the millionth time so far. For although the marble statue of liberty has been shot dead, somehow his spirit still remains, a see-through entity walking the creaky blood-soaked floorboards of the Musain. He stands in front of the fellow fallen revolutionary, calm as he accepts his non-lonely death with whom had believed in him to the end. Until it strikes him. Painfully hard, and he realises. They had all believed in him to the end. Yet he has led them to nothing but wrath and ruin. The young lives of Les Amis have been taken, and it is all due to their leader's foolishness. Pain, similar to what he felt just earlier nails itself to his chest yet again. But this time, its aim is harshly accurate; it hits him right in his heart; and its impact far more excruciating. His blood boils with agony. He doubles over, his head spinning, until the scene around him shifts like black liquid. Then he is surrounded by innumerable heaps of bloody corpses. His friends lie at his feet limply, hollow eyes condemning him for his hell-worthy crime. Beyond them is an unseeable end marked by a horizon of hellish crimson. But he cannot run from the truth. Amidst his guilty turmoil, a clawed hand stretches out from nowhere. Before he can escape its grasp, it clenches relentlessly at his neck. Choking him, he only manages to gasp with futile efforts.
A lurch in his abdomen before his face sensed the sharp chill of the night air.
"Monsieur, please," a papery, gruff voice implored. Enjolras became vaguely aware of the warm meaty hand placed over his shoulder. "It is only a nightmare."
But the remnants of the haunting visions in his head could still be plainly felt. The other man's cajoling was of no use. Even out of his state of slumber, Enjolras continued to struggle under the suffocating number of layers of blankets. The voices called out to him from all directions:
Enjolras. Enjolras. ENJOLRAS! ... MORE MEN, ENJOLRAS! HELP, PLEASE HELP US! ...Do you permit it?
"NO!" He growled, convulsing like a mad man at the restraints. He kicked furiously, the fear rising up his consciousness, threatening to drown him. "NO!"
"Monsieur!" An abrupt sensation of coldness sent a jolt down his forehead. Enjolras reacted with a swing of his arm to grip the hand holding the wet cloth, in place. Fingers wrapped dangerously around the old man's shaky wrist as his eyes shot open with terror.
"Another nightmare… Monsieur," the elder whispered deliberately, careful not to alarm the other further.
Reality dawned upon him now, and Enjolras stared on wide-eyed at their juncture of contact. A pause. His eyelashes fluttered as he casted his gaze downwards guiltily. His voice cracked, "Forgive me." Not another word, he slowly removed his hand.
"Leave me, Doctor," he murmured bitterly, weakly pushing the man's caring hand away. He turned on his side, feeling his night clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin with the aid of perspiration, which also dripped down his temples in more than one line. Hoping his visage was out of the other's view, he shut his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth as he attempted uselessly to hold back a single tear from rolling down his cheek.
The addressed doctor, familiar with Enjolras' tendencies, knew not to insist on anything else. With a sad sigh and a solemn nod, he upped and left the youth to his solitude and his plaguing memories.
The night terrors were constant. The pain only grew with each night. Enjolras, as stoic and unfeeling as he appeared by day, was regularly overwrought by bouts of trauma by night.
And so this was how it went. Ever since day 17 of being nursed in the kind doctor's home; when he had enough energy in his mind to become active, and enough energy in his muscles to respond to his mind's doings; he spent his days bedridden with depression and apathy, and his nights screaming with fear and rage. The doctor — Monsieur Laurent — would awaken to his piercing cries each night. He would shush him, lest the neighbours heard. Enjolras was sure they had already been suspicious for a time.
Ever since the battle at the barricade, the deaths of his friends weighed upon his shoulders. Now a fugitive for rising against the King, a lame patient that had been half dead only three months ago, and a psychologically unstable griever, Enjolras had lost all purpose in life. Even now as he received medical care, victuals, and a roof over his head from a benevolent man, he could do nothing but wish he had died. Yet taking his own life would seem wrong, for Monsieur Laurent had risked his own life for Enjolras' pathetic one.
Keeping himself buried in books — oh, the irony in the fact that this part of his lifestyle was still unchanged — to keep his mind sharp, as Monsieur Laurent had taken note to remind him every day, was all he could do to keep himself a little bit more sane.
Eat, read, dread sleep. There was scarcely any sleep. This routine could drive a man to madness. It nearly did Enjolras. Or if it did, he took care not to expose the fact.
The wounds that marred his chest throbbed and stung always. It almost seemed like the beating of his heart was too much for his bullet wounds to take. Three bullets, he remembered Monsieur Laurent muttering in disbelief during their first ever conversation together. Needless to say, his survival was a miracle.
Why was it not so for all his friends?
The bedroom he resided in was hospitable enough. The bed was the kind you expected at a hospital ward for middle-class Frenchmen. Monsieur Laurent's abode was humble, of plain drab wallpapers, unostentatious mahogany furniture and floors, diminutive traces of accoutrements. At least this was what he surmised from his limited view of the house. He stayed in the same room and had no chance to walk about. Just as he preferred, because then there was no bombardment of needless decor on his tired mind. Within the small room could be seen daily Enjolras' own raiment, the scarlet coat the only stark addition to the dull interior. These few months all Enjolras wore were nightgowns he changed out of every half a week. The readily assembled attire hanging over the dressing board taunted him.
He was weak. His legs could not carry him. It would take him longer before he found himself on two limbs again, and dressed respectfully, ready to leave his containment after a word of thanks to his saviour.
How he hated being so dependent. All the more weak it made him feel.
One day he had attempted standing by himself, only to tumble to a miserable heap on the floor. He had coiled inwards with unbearable pain, with no choice but to give in to the protests and insisted help from Monsieur Laurent. "You're not ready, young man," the senior had sternly said. "All in our own time."
What time?
Time did not matter to him anymore. It neither caught up with him, nor was he trying to catch up with it. Let him do as he liked, as long as God permitted it. If he wanted to walk, he would walk. Unfortunately, he was unable. Even the sheer force of the strong will belonging to the firm ex-leader could not overcome the barrier of his physicality.
Give it two more months from now, Monsieur Laurent had told him today, and he would be moving with the support of a cane. How far that would be. How even further his days of walking normally would be.
He did not try to sleep afterwards. He could not. He stared at the single window in his room, still as stone, taking in the pindrop silence. He watched as light began to filter through the olive curtains covering the view outside, the colour shift from mild, to a vibrant radiance as they danced over his aloof features and his wet mess of blonde locks.
He had been in this same position for possibly hours. Enjolras was not keeping track of the time. It seemed like only a while until a soft knock on the door sounded.
A pause. "Enter," he said.
Monsieur Laurent walked in, a silver tray in his hands. He approached the bed, placed the tray on the bedside table and waited. On it was his breakfast — some bread and milk — medicine and fresh linen bandages. When Enjolras kept his back facing the doctor, Monsieur Laurent sighed, "Not eating will only slow down your recovery." Silence. "So will remaining this sullen."
More silence. Monsieur Laurent faced this sort of detached, obstinate behavior from the young man nearly every day. He wished he would be more cooperative. It did no good for himself. Seeing Enjolras in such a miserable state caused his heart such heaviness. It was a pity his youth was stripped of him so early.
"Okay," he defeatedly muttered. "At least let me see to your wounds. If I remember correctly, this morning your bandages have to be changed."
A moment before Enjolras slowly sat up, his posture wavering as he grunted with the pain. The doctor hurriedly brought his hands to his sides to support his figure. Monsieur Laurent still could not see his face from where he sat at the edge of the bed behind Enjolras, but he could see clearly in his head the cold expression he so frequently carried, and most likely held at this moment.
Then he moved to the other side of the bed, bringing the tray with him which he placed on the bed beside Enjolras. Gently, he removed the bandages, revealing the red gouty blotches ruining the otherwise finely carved appearance of his upper body. His wounds were still bleeding badly. They were taking more time to heal than normal.
"The stress you undergo every night due to your… Visions. It causes your wounds to open up every time. This will not do. That you will not take regular meals and eat your medicine timely, are what is interfering with your recovery as well."
Still quiet, Enjolras' face, now visible to the doctor, remained as stony as ever.
"You may not like to open that rigid mouth of yours so much, Monsieur, but I hope those ears of yours are listening well. You want to walk, boy? Help yourself. Or remain a handicap."
He thought he saw Enjolras' jaw twitch, but carried on coolly to replace his bandages.
When he was finished, Monsieur Laurent stood up and left the food by his bed. Just as he was walking out the door, he heard the youth speak out in a strained tone. It was soft, but audible enough.
"Thank you."
Monsieur Laurent said nothing as he left the room, the door closing with a soft click. Only a silent prayer passed his lips,
Lord, save the poor child, that he will live to see that there is still hope on this earth.
—
For a certain gamine, the desire to walk out in society was less strong. She went outdoors as little as possible. When she did, it was only to run errands, and she did so with a trepidating frame of mind.
Having been living under the grisette's care, Madame Blanc expected Éponine to repay the kindness at least by helping to buy the daily bread and cheese from the market. Now that she was well enough to take to the streets without stumbling, Éponine did just that. Not wanting to upset or inconvenience the middle-aged woman whose health was slowly retreating, she gave no qualms about her assigned chore.
But everyday she treaded about the roads with a wary eye, and an iron grip keeping the secondhand shawl around her head. She was cautious not to reveal her face too much. She knew he was still out there, and he would be looking for her.
It would only be a matter of time.
The Thérnardiers were proficient searchers, she knew that much from her own inherited skills. And when her father wanted something, he would get it.
"You're mine, you hear? You won't ever see a life without me. As long as I'm living, you'll do as I say."
She shuddered remembering those words. She could still feel them breezing over her ears like a dangerous zephyr as she struggled against the hand bruising her neck. No, she was not yet free from her father. She may be dead to the pygmy ring of living acquaintances she had, but she was almost sure that her father would just know that she survived.
It was a strange thing to feel. It did not make sense. Still, the fear was strong as ever. She could feel him watching her every move, contemplating the right time to strike.
She inhaled sharply, instantly shaking her head to relieve these thoughts from her head. Her hand ghosted over her neck. She swallowed down the stringed sensation in her throat. Bringing her fingers down, they stopped at the region just below her bosom — where death had initially intended to claim her. Fortunately — or unfortunately, she was uncertain which it was at this point in time — he had changed his mind. Relating this evidence, of her almost valid ticket to the afterlife, to the image in the oblong mirror she now faced, she wanted to slap herself awake.
She appeared so different from the street urchin she was three months ago. That dirty, emaciated, undesirable thing. Now she was clean, her hair washed and combed out, skin finally showing some healthy glow, and some colour had found its way to her cheeks. She appeared different, but she did not feel different. This feeling stemmed from her daily viewing of the wounds she sustained from the barricade, which had left ugly, marred scars that were sure to be permanent. Although the perforated spot on her torso could be hidden from strangers' eyes, the very obvious, horribly mangled scar on her left hand was completely visible. An effort was made everyday to keep it out of view by wearing thin gloves. It served as a grim reminder every day that she was still hiding from the world. Her past life still haunted her. Marius still possessed her mind.
Marius… Her heart ached at just the thought of his name. The memories from what had seemed to be her last moments at the time would come flooding back. Her head cradled lovingly in his lap, the mournful, protective look in his eyes. And her confession… As much as she hoped he had always treated her so gently like that, and returned her feelings, she knew it was not possible.
She sighed, fumbling with her corset with trembling fingers. Once she had put on her undergarments, she brought the plain sand-coloured dress over her head. Soon the muslin hid her battle wounds. It was time to face a new day.
She left her room, walked down the stairs to be greeted by the shrewd woman. Madame Blanc's head turned up in a silent pride, she softly announced a "Good morning, *jeune madame."
Éponine whispered a "Good morning, Madame" in return, head low as a little smile passed her lips.
The lone housekeeper was a plump woman, astute in matters of the household, and a woman who clearly gave herself airs. And with every right, for she was as capable and fierce in everything that she did, and expected others to respect her for it. Éponine did. Had even seen for herself how the woman had been able to nurse a dying girl to good health, despite her deteriorating one. Madame Blanc had pains in her joints, and suffered from erratic changes in blood pressure. Éponine observed her tendencies to double over with discomfort, or sweat and pant furiously from the strain of domestic affairs. At first Éponine had urged her not to overexert herself. But Madame Blanc had refused stubbornly. She carried on as per normal, not wishing to feel like a handicap. Éponine worried for her, now saw her as a sort of mother figure, but not wanting to hurt her pride, subtly helped her as much as she could with her activities.
"You wipe that cheeky smile off your face, girl. Scoff down breakfast and be on your way."
Éponine wordlessly obeyed, realising Madame Blanc was the only person she ever willingly assented to — with the exception of Marius.
When was the Pontmercy boy ever not in her head? She groaned at how pathetic she was as she passed the door. You stupid girl, she thought. You're dead to him now. He's happily married to a beautiful, wealthy lady now. Best you forget about him.
She thought she heard the start of violent gasping coming from the kitchen as she left the house, but in her deep condemning thoughts, she failed to take it to concern.
The sad truth was, as much as she pushed herself every day to forget her love, she was only making it worse for herself.
After a round of walking about the marketplace and purchasing what she needed, she would turn round the alley down the lane. At the end of it, a great house. There, she would stand at the grand gates marking the entrance into the estate, leaning on the tall brick wall on their side. A position allowing her to watch the house from outside, and hide behind the walls when needed.
She would gaze on absentmindedly, observe the silhouettes glide behind the clear windows, especially of those at the third level. That balcony her thoughtful stare would bore itself into. Around the hour she did this, the two figures could always be seen in the bedroom. Sometimes she saw their mouths move, sometimes they were still, sometimes, embracing.
How gentle and kind she was to him. If she had treated him with the same angelic care, instead of the harsh teasing he suffered, would he have loved her the same way he did his new wife?
Indeed, fate seemed to be mocking her by letting events turn out this way, that she would survive the barricades, only to find she could not let go of her past, no matter how hard she tried. The Pontmercy Estate stood gloriously, just a street away from where Éponine stayed. And although watching Marius and Cosette from the outside like this stung her heart, she could not help but watch her beloved every day. For it gave her as much happiness to see him be happy and alive as pain to know he cared for another.
Let him know! You're alive! You were his friend. He would be happy to see you if anything.
No, the rational part of her, the heartbroken part of her, argued back. It will only add to the pain.
She walked back, head down, a melancholy picture. Despite her desolate spirits, she maintained awareness of her surroundings. It was not difficult to do; she was used to having to watch her own back in the more questionable parts of Paris. The ache remained deep in her chest, and biting the inside of her cheek was all she could do to stop the tears from pushing through.
At the faded wooden door of the little crooked house, she paused to clear her glazed eyes and exhaust all the sniffles. She did not want Madame Blanc seeing her so gloomy, and would prefer not to be asked questions about what would be a very sore subject. She took a deep breath, then entered, announcing in a casual-as-possible voice, "Madame, I'm back! They were out of the cheese you wanted, so I-"
Her breath caught in her throat. Panic rose within her.
"Madame Blanc!" She cried, dropping the baskets of groceries she held. She rushed to the prostrate woman's side, nearly falling over the mess her hurried steps made. Seeing her eyes were closed, the fear overtook her. Éponine shook her shoulders violently, heart racing quickly. "Please. Don't be dead…"
No response. She managed to gather herself, so that she thought to check for her breathing. Lowering her ear to her half-open mouth, she could feel no warm air. "No…" She checked her neck for a pulse. Nothing. " *Merde."
"Merde! Madame! Wake up…!"
More shaking, until the realisation dawned on her that she was truly lost. Éponine was soon reduced to convulsions. She leant over the body, sobbing, wetting the chemise of the deceased one.
The only person who cared for her was now gone. Éponine Thérnardier was cursed. She was not meant to be loved, after all.
Minutes of silence as her face remained buried in Madame Blanc's chest. Then she rose, donning a solemn countenance layered with bitter grief.
Maybe she did not need love. When had love ever been there for her, anyway? No use chasing for something that was out of reach. It would only make things more unbearable. Éponine knew her way around. She could live a solitary life, free from anything, anyone, capable of breaking her heart again.
But not free from Thérnardier.
She gritted her teeth. No, she would not let that stop her from living. She would figure things out somehow. Get a job, earn enough francs to get her out of Paris. Escape from under the ever-vigilant nose of her father and Patron-Minette. She would change her name if she had to.
"Thank you," she whispered, gently placing a kiss to the forehead of the reposing woman. Then she buried the saint — she would be known as a saint in Éponine's memory — in the backyard of the residence. There a wide wooden plank could be seen erected, crudely scratched into its surface,
Adalie Blanc
Childless widow
Yet mother to one who was lost
May she rest in peace
Wiping the dirt off her blackened face, she threw the old shovel to the ground. She went upstairs, feeling her head spin as she did. Then she changed out of her soiled muslin dress to put on a new one. It was here she realised how the room she occupied all these months seemed to have been meant for her; the wardrobe was filled with garments suited for a young woman like her. Madame Blanc had a daughter once, she guessed. She wondered what had happened to her. For some reason the woman never spoke of family once.
She smiled sadly. It was nice to think that Éponine had possibly brought some form of joy to the woman's life. Now she would be content in God's place. If there even existed God's place.
Éponine found herself doubting that a lot lately.
Faith was easy to waver when one was never so blessed.
—
*jeune madame: young madam
*merde: shit
A/N: This chapter was mainly to establish Enjolras' and Éponine's individual situations at the moment. They'll meet in the next chapter, so don't worry heh.
Reviews are much appreciated. If there's any spot I can improve on (anything, really), constructive suggestions are welcome, of course!