Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis.
The memories will wane, the aftershocks remain. You wonder which is worse...
It was dusk, just barely enough light to see the paved streets in front of him. Enjolras crept along, mindful of keeping hidden in the shadows while trying to avoid the blood stained bricks. It was impossible to miss all of them though, the blood of so many innocent lives bathing the streets until they had become permanent fixtures etched into the concrete. Their essence would forever live in these streets, marking the passage of time. He could already see that time had passed simply by noting the color. The blood along the sides of buildings a bright, coppery red yet untouched by life. Along the floor of the streets it had already begun to turn a rusty brown with streaks of black, showing that while the street was largely avoided carriages and carts still had to come down, indicating that life does indeed move on. And then, the closer you got to the Musain, the darker and blacker the color became. The fighting was congested here, the color only becoming capable when blood was spilled on top of blood multiple times. So much that you couldn't tell who fell where, the memories a blur.
He was dressed in all black and carrying a bucket of red paint. He hated the color. The color use to mean so much to him, so much that he would wear it with pride. A show of the people. Now, it just showed the efforts of the dead. He stepped inside the Musain and, as if on autopilot, he walked up to the room where it all began. Their idealistic notions of freedom, of the people rising. It was now just a symbol of failure. He could see where each of his friends fell, their blood soaked into the wood, turning it a distasteful brown color. It was nowhere near a homage to his fallen brothers. He walked over to the wall, the wall where he thought he would have died against and saw his own blackened stain. His fingers were shaking as he ran his fingertips lightly over it, remembering.
They were a jumbled mess, mostly just filled with sounds and smells. After they had retreated to this room, their sanctuary, and he saw his best friends fall like rag dolls he stopped being able to process what was fully going on. His mind had shut down. But he could still remember the smell of fresh blood mixed with gunpowder. It made his stomach heave. He could remember the despair at being the last of them alive and wishing he had gone first. Maybe, if he had then his friends would be alive, the symbol and figurehead of the revolution dead and broken. He remembered his last moments of strength, lifting the flag above his head with a glare in his eyes telling them to do their worst. Then the pain followed as bullets pierced his body. Lights flashed before his eyes as agony filled every inch of him. They got him in the leg and shoulder, as well as grazed his arm. He suspected that was why he was still alive, that one bullet missed him, fate laughing at him by causing his life to be spared by a single fraction. The last thing he remembered was the trickle of warm blood, his blood, flowing out of him, the smell hitting his nose strongly as he passed out and welcomed death.
He doesn't know how he survived, who took pity on him and brought him back from the brink of death. He wished he did so he could curse them; curse them for making him live his life in regret and guilt. It didn't escape his mind that that could have been their purpose, to make him go through his days living with the death and destruction he caused. It was, so far, proving to indeed be a fate worse than death. At least in death he could be reunited with them, apologize to them.
He had woken up alone, bandaged inside an abandoned shop without any knowledge of how he got there. His first experience back from death was to step outside onto these very streets and see the aftermath. He could still hear the tears. The Musain had turned into an unspoken memorial for the revolution and he decided a few days ago to make it official. This was where they met, where they planned, fell in love, drank together, and died together. He was going to paint their names on the wall, forever placing them inside these walls.
He dipped his brush inside the paint, swirling it around to mix it thoroughly and thinking how easily it flowed. Did their blood flow as easily as this paint? He chose red because it was their color, their symbol and flag but now, now it took on a whole new meaning. He had to keep him mind focused on the thought that it was just paint, latch onto the sharp, tangy smell and not let himself fall back. It constantly shifted; the sharp tangy smell to the coppery, acidic smell of blood. He pulled up the brush, intending to paint a name when his sense shifted again. He closed his eyes to stop the tears and to refocus himself. He rested his head on the wall, careful to avoid a gunshot hole and breathed deeply. He needed to do this, for himself and for them.
He let out a chocked sob, filled with anguish. He was about to turn and give up when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Enjolras?" He would know that voice anywhere. It haunted his dreams and nightmares.
"Éponine, you came." He fought desperately to keep his tone even, to show that he was strong.
"Of course I came. I'll always be here." She moved her hand and began stroking his back gently, soothing him from the brink.
"I failed them. They died because of me and yet here I stand." Tears were running down his face now, the brush abandoned in the can of paint.
"They died fighting for a cause they believed in, a vision of the future. You were their leader, not their reason." Her voice was gentle.
"It's still my fault. I pushed them. If it weren't for me they never would have begun a battle. Talks of revolution and freedom would have stayed as bar talk."
"Every single one of them knew that death was an outcome and it was a price they were willing to pay. You did not force them; you just inspired them to act. They would not want you to wallow in despair."
"Then what am I to do, Éponine? It has only been a week but I feel I will never recover. I still wake up in the middle of the night, screaming at them to move before they are struck down. It is like I am watching it from the outside, unable to do anything but watch them die… over… and over… I see their faces, Éponine. The pivotal seconds before death in slow motion. The shock of getting hit, the pain, and then the blank gaze that only comes with death. Will it ever end?" He rasped; clenching his eyes closed to stop the onslaught of emotion and dug his nails in the rough wood, needing to relieve some of the pain he felt.
"I can't tell you that, but the first step is what you are doing. You are honoring their memory, their sacrifice. I will be here for you while you do it."
Enjolras drew a shaky breath and picked up paint brush again. He raised it to the wall and felt Éponine give his shoulder a small squeeze of encouragement. Little did she know that was the only thing that gave him the courage to begin.
He painted a shaky M before speaking, "I'm starting with Marius. I knew him the least amount of time and I didn't see his death. There is some about of mystery and disconnect, a good place to start. He was so pure, innocent. He never should have joined us; he should have retained that pure hope. I feel bad that I am the cause of its disappearance. I forced him to make a choice and because of that he is dead and his Cosette has to live with that knowledge."
"He came back because of that hope. He believed that you all could make a difference. He wanted Cosette to live with him in a world not bound by social constraints. He fought for her because he knew that his grandfather would scoff at her background."
"I thought you loved him once?" He asked.
"I did, once. But I was just a silly girl, looking for love in the wrong places. He belonged with Cosette; even I could see that eventually."
He nodded, dipping the paint back in to begin another name. "Bossuet. That man had the worst luck I have ever seen but he never let it get him down. Always had a smile on his face, even in death. Struck down in the first wave of attacks, the first Ami to fall. I remember him joking about how with his luck, he wouldn't make it very far in battle."
"It was his way of coping with the concept of death. It was a way to make light of the situation, make the fear of it seem less in his eyes." Éponine said mournfully.
Enjolras picked up more paint, "He used to joke with Joly about it, before attempting to make Joly promise he would survive so Musichetta wouldn't be alone. He never made that promise but I feel that in his heart he did. He broke it, following Bossuet into death shortly thereafter. He was trying to tend to his friend, trying to keep him from death even though there was a bullet in his head." He finished as he painted the 'y' in Joly.
"Joly died how he wanted to die. Trying to help and save others, using his medical knowledge to the best of his abilities. I heard him talking to Bossuet about it, no one ever notices me in the shadows so I hear a lot. He said that he didn't fear death so much as dying the wrong way. He didn't want to go out in the blaze of bullets, in battle."
"And now Musichetta is left alone, mourning not one love, but two." Enjolras paused, needing a moment to collect himself. He should try and reach out to her but he couldn't. She would hold too many memories. He couldn't look at her without seeing Bossuet's smiling face or hear Joly's worries that he was coming down with something tragic.
"Musichetta is strong; she can make it through this." Éponine reassured him.
He nodded, picking up the brush again. It felt heavier this time, his emotions weighing down on him. The paint slowly dripped back into the can drop by drop, so similar to the next death he was about to remember. "Gavroche. His death should not have happened. He shouldn't have even been at the barricades. He was only a child and now he will never see adulthood and it isn't fair."
"None of this is fair Enjolras. Fairness is what you were fighting for, what you were trying to achieve."
"And because of me you will never hug your brother again. You should hate me."
Éponine's voice was filled with pity, "I don't hate you Enjolras. Gavroche was always so stubborn and nothing would have kept him away. He idolized all of you, you gave him a home. A family. I could never begrudge you for that. And I will see him again."
"His death was one of the hardest… the bullets mercilessly going through his body, the screams of Courfeyrac, the blood dripping drop by drop as he was scooped up and brought back behind the barricade." His voice cracked as he remembered the sorrow on every one of their faces. Gavroche's death was the one where they knew the harshness of war, the sacrifices that end up being made.
He took a shuddered breath and began the next few names quickly, pushing through the pain. "Bahorel. His death was the quickest, and cleanest of us all. He fell off the barricade from a canon blast, lost his footing and broke his neck. I will always remember his jokes about being a life-long student of the law."
"Jehan, I didn't see what happened to him, only his body, broken and bloody on the barricade. His death painted a living picture of the fierceness of battle. He would have been inspired to paint it if he could have. I am sorry that he won't and that I can't do it for him."
Éponine began rubbing her hand up and down his arm, "Courfeyrac, he was so lost after Gavroche. Shot in the back, not even given the chance to dodge or fight back. He was always there, at the center of things, ready to make you laugh. He was so dedicated to the cause and charismatic to a fault. He lived his life fully, whether it was bringing new members to the cause or flirting with a new woman. The world seems a little darker without his cheer." He said robotically.
"He died where he wanted to be, by your side, fighting till the end. It was a good death."
Enjolras scoffed, "At what is that? A good death?" He spat it out bitterly, "That is just what people tell themselves to make it better. There is no such thing, death is pain. It's no longer being able to fight for what you believe in. It is a label given so that others can use death to further their own gain."
He heard Éponine tsk behind him, "You have it all wrong, Enjolras. You are being blinded by your pain. A good death is where you are mentally at peace and they can die on their own terms. Yes, death is fraught with pain but at least Courfeyrac died for what he wanted, a cause he believed in and because of that he was at peace. They may have killed him but in the end it was still on his own terms."
Enjolras ignored her as he painted a new name. "Feuilly, I respected him greatly, more than any man, a true man of the people. He taught himself to read and write and grew up an orphan. He was so optimistic about the outcome, in our success. I feel like France failed him in a way."
"He is going to be welcomed by his motherland, cocooned within the soil of France. He is at peace."
"You speak of things you do not know, Éponine. You can't be certain of that."
He painted another name, his shoulder wound beginning to hurt slightly. He ignored the pain, feeling it was his penance. "Grantaire." He paused, unable to form words. Given what happened there was nothing Enjolras could say to make it better, couldn't take back past insults or speak about how he had changed at the end. "Thank you for your sacrifice, friend." He said reverently.
"He believed in you." Damn it, he didn't want to talk about this. This was the one death he never wanted to discuss.
"His life wasn't worth less than my own. He should have stayed away." His voice was breaking from the weight of his guilt, bearing down on his shoulders and heart.
"You were the only thing of hope in his life, Enjolras. You showed him that there are things you can be passionate about, things you can believe in completely and because of that he admired you. He wanted to be like you but felt he couldn't." Éponine's voice cut through straight to his heart, adding more weight upon him. So much that he struggled to breath.
"His death is one I regret."
"I know, Enjolras."
He felt even more despair as he wrote his best friend's name, "Combeferre. My best friend and adviser, he never failed to question me, to make me better. He always had the best questions, always made me answer with conviction, and always had a retort from a philosopher. He loved to read and even though he feared death he would die for the cause. His death… it was the messiest… three bayonets to the chest. I felt sick when I saw them slice through him so easily. The last thing he did was look over at me. I saw the life drain out of his eyes…" Tears began silently running down his face anew as he painted the last few letters.
"It's okay to mourn those that died, Enjolras. There are some deaths that you can never get over. You just have to adapt and move on as best you can. They will stay with you; small memories will pop up occasionally and haunt you." Éponine spoke so reasonably and true. But he wasn't ready to accept it yet.
"How am I supposed to live with this, Éponine? To adapt? All I feel is the guilt, the pain, the overwhelming and crippling feeling of being crushed alive?" He cried out.
She was right behind him and he could feel her arms encircling his waist, hugging him. She rested her head on his back and squeezed. "I'm sorry Enjolras that I don't have all the answers. And it will take some time, but it will get better. It has to. I wish there was more I could do. Wish that I could take your pain away." Her voice held such sorrow and he grasped her arm to keep himself grounded.
He removed his hand and grabbed the brush. Her arms fell from him and his hand stilled, paint dripping down onto the wood running in rivets like blood. After a few moments it began moving as if disconnected from his body. "Éponine, I love you. I'm sorry that I wanted until now, after all this, to tell you."
There was silence as he finished writing the last name. He turned away for the first time since he began, looking for her. There was nothing there aside from overturned chairs and broken tables. His heart lurched as he looked back at the last name his arm painted, the name that he didn't think about, the name that meant everything to him.
Éponine.
He fell to his knees, his emotions getting the better of him and breaking him. He screamed in pain as he fell forward on his hands. Broken sobs crashed through the café, creating a cacophony as they bounced off the walls and broken glass. He remembered everything about her death down to the smallest detail and it would stay with him for the rest of his life. Years from now, he would remember everything as if it were yesterday.
She died early on, another death that he didn't see happen. But he remembered her scream. It haunted him every night. It cut through the sounds of battle, filled with shock and pain. He knew instantly who caused that scream and his heart, and world, stopped.
When he turned he saw her, blood seeping through her clothes at an alarming rate… a rate the only ended one way. He wanted to run up to her, to rip her from Marius' arms and into his own. He wanted to tell her how he felt. Instead, he was frozen. Her hand was drenched in her own blood and as she lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the lights her blood dripped onto her face like rain. He could see her eyes grow hazy as she searched for him. Their eyes met and he tried to put all his emotion on his face, desperate to let her know she was loved in life. He didn't know if she could see that much, the light fading from her eyes to rapidly. She smiled at him before mouthing, "I don't feel any pain." Her eyes lost their light, her presence leaving this Earth and leaving behind a shell. And yet, she still looked beautiful, even in death. He wished he had fallen into death with her; that was his last thought before he blacked out, that he would finally be able to see her again, to tell her everything, to mourn with her.
He wanted to curse his existence, curse whatever fates gave him this destiny. His sobs lessened slightly, enough that he could sit back and lean his head tiredly against the wall. He was exhausted. He was going to have to deal with losing the love of his life without ever telling her the truth, how he felt about her. It killed him inside.
He stood up shakily and grabbed the paint brush one last time. He put his hand back to the bloodstain, his bloodstain. He slowly began to paint his own name, right over the stain. Not because everyone believed him to be dead but because, in some ways, he was dead. He was no longer the same Enjolras as he was before the revolution and he needed to memorialize that in some way. What better way than to paint over the smear on the wall that symbolized his survival?
He finished painting his name and put the brush back in bucket. He stepped back to look at all the names along the wall, his fallen friends and love of his life. There they were, their moments etched in time. He hoped that one day he could come back and remember them fondly, without falling over in crippling pain. He gave one look back at the wall and limped out of the room.