After seeing Les Misérables in the cinema and crying all the way through it, I find this somewhat inevitable. I have seen the play loads of times, I think I'm on my sixth time, and I've read the book, so this is a sort of composition of all of them.
Just a random idea I had. Even I don't know who it's shipping, but I felt the need for yet more closure.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Les Mis, the play, book or film. I am making no profits from this.
Climbing to the Light:
He was dying. He was certain of it. His soul was heavy with the feeling of closure, of something big ending.
Everyday seemed to be longer, every movement more painful, yet every second flew by, leading him on to his ultimate destination. He would arise with the pain and go to bed with the pain, putting on a brave face, forcing his way through the fog.
Cosette had shown concern when he could no longer hide it. Her soft hand on his cheek felt that the warmest ice and it made him tremble. He smiled, no my dear Cosette I am perfectly well, and she would smile back and they would continue onwards.
His life had not been hard. In fact, in comparison to those around and below him, his life had been a breeze. Raised a rich young boy, mainly by his grandfather and servants, studied hard, been swept up in talk of revolution and equality, seen it crumble but made it out alive. He'd lost, he'd loved, and he'd married. They had brought life, four times over and it had been blissful. He was getting on, getting old, only just 50, but feeling the years.
Cosette, the sweetest thing she was, the best of his life, so worried for his safety called the doctor. He confirmed his suspicions. The doctor gave it a name, a long, complicated, hideous name that sounded jaunty and terrifying on even the most innocent of tongues. Cosette wept. He did not. He had known it was coming.
The pain was only felt when he expected it, when he drew his attention to it. Most days he could go through the hours with his family, or a book, or an activity and forget, but whenever his thoughts drifted back to it, there it would be, a physical pain to remind him, remind him that he was a dead man walking.
It had started with the song, a distant tune on the breeze. He heard it when strolling in the park, while lying in bed waiting for sleep to claim him, it would drift through his dreams and tickle his ear in the garden, or in times of silence. It was the faintest, tangible song, sad and victorious, so brilliantly familiar he found himself humming it quietly. It was the song of equality and dreams of freedom, it was the song of the poverty-stricken and idealists and those thirsting for change. It was the music of those forgotten, and those waiting to be remembered, those brave and loyal enough to take a stand and those willing to fight in the name of hope and France. Sometimes it made him weep, tears of sadness adorning his cheeks, wiped away before his wife could see. It made him weep because it was not bitter as it should have been, it was not wallowing in the failure, no, it was glorious and joyful, it was enlightening and courageous, it was the song of the fallen which played to him from heaven, reminding him of the struggles and the rewards waiting, and it was beautiful.
He then began to notice them, everywhere. It started with a trip to market, strolling past the Cafe Musain, rebuilt and moving onwards as he had done, when he saw them. They were more than just ghosts, they were there. Just inside the windows, the new inhabitants disappeared and he saw them, standing where they had stood, colourful and alive, laughing, talking, exchanging words of revolution. They were ethereal, almost glowing, each one so perfect in demeanour and appearance but so undoubtedly themselves. A familiar dark curly head sat at a table, drinking his normal brew and cheering on the others, he could spot the doctor, the fan maker, the friends he'd lost among the crowd, shining in red, white and blue, raising their drinks in salute and celebration.
He assumed he must have been hallucinating but no, there they were, clear as day. Grantaire turned his head and signalled for him to join them, a familiar welcoming grin on his stubbled face, not a trace of blood to be seen. Marius stood, disbelieving, then shook his head. Grantaire shrugged and continued to talk loudly to Combferre across the room, his words lost to time.
Marius pushed himself onwards and told himself not to look back, tears threatening his eyes for those whom he had lost, and he knew he would never get back.
Then, a few weeks later, while sitting with Cosette on a bench in the city, he saw him across the square. Still a little whip, all bony limbs, toothy grins and a mop of dirty blonde hair, but so much cleaner and healthier. The boy caught sight of him across from where he was lounging on a street corner and beamed at him, waving a small hand. Marius smiled and waved back. He knew it wasn't him, it couldn't be, little Gavroche had been another victim of the barricade, but no bullet wounds marred this small, heavenly vision. He looked happy, well-fed, unscarred and shining with youth and light. He didn't fit with those walking past, like he was made out of something different, something better. Marius didn't know what to do, a glance revealed Cosette buried in her book and thus unaware that he was waving at nothing. Gavroche gave him another tear-jerking smile and a salute then turned and scurried off down an alley way as he had always used to do.
Soon he began to see them everywhere. They became a part of his life without him really knowing. He would sit and read with L'Amis and would have discussions with the apparitions of his friends. One horrible day, Enjolras came to him alone. Marius was spending a solitary evening in the drawing room, studying an ancient text when he felt his presence. He was standing there, mighty as ever, and even more so in his reincarnated state. He wore the clothes he had at the barricade, blood red waistcoat without any real blood, blonde hair glowing and blue eyes burning with the fire so much more powerful than any physical weapon. Such intelligence in his eyes, such leadership in his posture, such power and determination in the sharp, hard lines of his angelic face.
Marius closed his eyes in defeat. "Forgive me, my friend." He said.
The faintest smile graced said friend's lips. "You are forgiven."
His voice rang like bells and boomed like thunder, that voice which preached the power of the people and spoke words which could move even the coldest of heart and inspire courage in the weakest of souls, his voice was the reason no one had deserted the barricade before it fell.
For what felt like an eternity he just sat there, soaking up the half-presence of their brave, fallen leader. The more Marius looked, the more he desired his presence, and the quicker Enjolras faded.
"Will I see you again?!" He cried in desperation.
Enjolras smiled his heavenly smile. "Soon."
Cosette stayed by his side as he grew wearier, the years creeping up on him suddenly with his condition. He begged her to stay strong, which she had never been very good at, but made a valiant attempt anyway. She was his closest companion, but he often felt that she would never understand his trauma, his inner most feelings. He had fought, he had watched those he loved die around him, the blood, the canon fire, the screams, the pleads, the chaos, the shouts of his wounded friends, and their wonderful, terrible song of freedom that haunted his days. She could never know how much it grieved him.
He knew the end was near one very particular night. His pain grew steadily worse, the illness reaching into his brain and causing his head to throb almost constantly. He had decided on a period in the garden to clear his mind, in the hope of fresh air relieving his burden. He reflected that his life had been long and happy, and it was nearing its end. The only thing he grieved for was Cosette, but he knew the children wouldn't let her be lonely.
While wandering into his favourite part of the garden, his sapling willow tree and the small pond it hung over, that's when he saw it.
In the darkness of night, his ghost companions apparently glowed brighter, as the light surrounding the figure was watery, but highly evident. She stood, leaning against the young tree, gazing into the clear still waters of the small pond, the only sign of movement was her hair stirring in the soft breeze.
He swallowed, his heart clenching and his throat closing up. Truth be told, he had been waiting for her, the others had shown themselves at least once, but never her, she had been holding out.
She turned to face him, every trace of the effects left by the harshness of her life had vanished. Her presence was stronger than the others, her glow brighter, her image sharper. Gone was the layer of filth that seemed to constantly cover her skin in life, gone were the tangles in her hair and the scars on her limbs, gone was every atom of weariness and woe from her eyes. She stood, radiant, her skin flawless, chocolate hair falling around her shoulders in soft, shining waves, she was no longer skin and bone, but looked healthy and feminine and she wore the dress she had died in, but it was void of rips, tears or dirt and even the material itself seemed to glimmer ethereally. The deep dark pools of her eyes, that used to be filled with determination and necessary caution, layered with exhaustion and sadness, now glittered and swirled with absolute peace. She regarded him with pure, sinless happiness and care, as if she had been waiting a long time to see him again.
He could still remember her as she had been. How could he forget? His best friend, as she had been in life, small, thin, but unyielding and willing to do whatever it took to make things better. He remembered her, so tiny and frail, in his arms, the bullet that was meant for him embedded in her, her life trickling away with her blood and yet not an ounce of misery at her fate present in her face. She looked at him now as she did then, with adoration and love, and he had thrown it away for someone else.
She turned to face him as he felt himself approaching her. She had not aged as he had. He was a greying 50 year old whereas she hadn't aged a day since he had last seen her, still in her youthful body. He stopped a few feet in front of her and looked at her with such wonder and hope, was this what was in store for him?
"Éponine..." he choked out.
A smile broke out across her face, glittering in the twilight. She had never looked so happy in life, and he found himself smiling back. She was here, his best friend who had died for him, who had loved him for God knows how long and whom he had let slip away. So many things he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask her, and tell her, and hear her answers, but he could not bring himself to break the moment, with her smile, and her glow, he thought he was being taken up right there.
"'Ponine how much longer?"
"Not long now, Monsieur Marius."
"It was fitting, was it not, it was a triumph? They suffered and were rewarded. What will become of me?"
"You will be at peace. You will be with us."
"With you?"
"With me."
"They come to claim me?"
"They come to remind you. They each wandered through the valley of the night, they each found peace, we won, Marius. They are the stars in the sky and the songs on the breeze, and their story shall never be forgotten, their sacrifice never overlooked."
He looked up from the grass below into her face; so honest, so pure, so devastatingly, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, such as it never had a chance to be in life. This was their reward, he had fought too, he had loved, and this was his reward, another eternity of happiness.
He walked over to the bench and collapsed on it, his energy leaving him. She drifted over to his side.
"Oh, 'Ponine. Do you not hate me?"
"Hate you? Never. My life was meaningless without you, another street rat lost to the barricade. It was painful, so very painful, but it helped me. I saved you, you've lived happily, you've done all you could. I am so very glad. I could never hate you, Monsieur."
"I was blind, I am so sorry. I went against everything I was fighting for."
"You were in love. That is not punishable."
"I love, I have loved, I will love, I love my family and my friends, I love my house, my life, and I love them, I loved them and I still do, and I love you, and I know I must die to be with any of you."
He felt her hand ghost over his shoulder, barely there, like a gentle breeze.
"'Ponine, are you real? Am I imagining you?"
She thought for a minute, gazing serenely into the distance.
"Perhaps, no way of telling really."
He sighed.
"No reason why I couldn't be here, apart from the obvious."
They remained in silence for the rest of the night, she just comforting him, and he just soaking up the shimmering presence of his departed best friend. It was a while before he noticed the tears silently streaming down his aged, weary face, trickling down his chin and wetting his collar. He wept for the lost, and the lonely, and the deserted. He wept for his friends, his people, his Éponine and himself. He remembered Cosette's late father's words: "Love is the garden of the young". This was true. All the fiery passion and overwhelming emotion he had felt as a boy had worn him out, and flowed away with his tears as he aged. He felt comparatively empty, but he assumed that was what life involved. He was old, his passion had left him. Éponine sat beside him, radiant in youth, the very essence of love, friendship and comfort. Emotions kept you fresh, he thought. The kindest of men may age inevitably, but his benevolence would never leave his eyes.
Two nights later, he lay in bed. The doctor had informed him, unnecessarily that he did not have long left. He had seen no more of the ghosts, choosing to spend all of his remaining time with his family, always occupied, always smiling. He could see it pained her, his darling Cosette, he could see what she kept hidden behind warm eyes, the fear and hopelessness that hovered beneath the surface, waiting to take hold when his soul departed. He pitied her more than he pitied himself.
He had not had much trouble sleeping over the past few months, the echoes of the barricades had all but left his nightmares, but on that night, an invisible barrier blocked his way into peaceful repose.
Blinking in the ever-fading light, he glanced out of the window, the streets of Paris seemingly calm, hiding the horror and poverty within, and then glanced round the room once more.
And she was there again.
Her face did not show open happiness as it had before, but a rather grieving expression. The bottomless pools of her eyes, however, projected contentment and reassurance. She titled her head on one side, her flawless skin glowing slightly, and observed him calmly. Such beauty, he thought, such radiance for a mere street urchin. But then he thought, she could have been a princess, she could have been a lady like his Cosette, she could have been an angel, or a goddess, it was simply that circumstance had caused her to be born into a life with both no social status and extraordinary beauty, and it had meant no one had seen it when she was alive.
Over her shoulder, he could see the luminescent outlines of the others, all magnificent and mournful. He glanced from his brothers to Éponine. She nodded then held out her hand.
As if he was a man decades younger, he got out of bed with ease, the pain obliterated from him. He took her hand. He could feel it. Gone was the callousness of life, replaced by warmth and softness, but her hand was very much there.
She beamed, a smile of heaven. The others smiled too, they had never looked happier to see him. He found himself reflecting their joy in his own face.
"Where have you been? Why do you come to me now?" He asked.
"We were always here." Éponine replied.
He hung onto her small, soft hand, and let go of everything else. He felt his weariness leave him, his years fly away, his pain, his frustration, his guilt, his sorrow all vanished. He was free, and it felt wonderful.
Éponine led him away, away from his home and his wife, away from his responsibilities and regret, away from his past life. He followed her blindly. He knew he was safe and, wherever he was going, it was better.
Such enlightenment, such glory, such redemption. He closed his eyes and let his mind burst with possibility and hope. He felt himself filled up with an indescribable feeling of pure bliss, the likes of such he had not even comprehended in life. Everywhere around him, they were there, in his heart and soul and mind and consciousness. They smiled through the mist and light and welcomed him with open arms, and he went gladly. He was lost, but climbing, and it was fantastic.
He was with them once more, at last, all burdens shed. He had fought, and won, he had loved and lost, he had struggled and succeeded and this was his reward, the reward of all who deserved it. Eternity was stretched before him, unyielding yet filled with colour and he could hear it clear as day now. It enveloped his senses, flooded his heart and he soared on it, the eternal song of the victorious. He looked around and they sang, their voices ringing clear and beautiful, in perfect unison, in an infinite moment of triumph. And he joined the song. He stood with them and sang.
They sang of unity and of company, of hope and happiness, of the sunrise after the darkest night and of the victory ultimately won. The song of angry men finally satisfied, and of the great triumph finally achieved, and of the companion, reunited, and at peace at last.
Do you hear the people sing?
Lost in the valley of the night.
It is the music of a people,
Who are climbing to the light.
For the wretched of the earth,
There is a flame that never dies.
Even the darkest night will end,
And the sun will rise.