Title: Defend Yourself, 'ponine

Rating: T for death, gore, and language

Summary: Defend yourself to me, 'ponine—tell me what right you had to interfere with my life or to pretend I did you a disservice by being unable to love you? But—you cannot defend yourself, can you, Eponine? You are dead.

In a way, it was a relief, really.

Yes, it sounds horrible, but you didn't know her—how she was like the lost puppy that follows you home and pretends you're it's mother. And the other children laugh (even though it is most definitely not your fault, you never did anything to encourage this puppy to attach itself to you).

Only a puppy cannot talk to you. A puppy cannot breathe, "Monsieur Marius," in the pitiful, high-pitched voice she had. A puppy cannot take a shot for you, and it can't make you wonder if you hadn't been looking at part of the picture a little bit upside down.

Of course, I'm grateful; she did save my life, so I have to be, I suppose.

But that doesn't mean that I have to feel regret for not loving her. If she had just let me alone I might have even liked her. As it was I spent most of my time avoiding her, though it was good of her to deliver my letters.

I pitied her then—but not anymore.

She only makes me angry—why did she have to be there, in my life, at all? What gave her the right to insert herself into my existence? If she hadn't been around things might have been different.

Perhaps I wouldn't be slightly confused now.

She was like a witch; casting not with spells but with a pathetic guilt-trip that she had probably picked up from that father of hers—Jondrette, I believe.

Eponine wasn't even pretty. Her fingers were like filthy grass blades; too long for her small hands, and her hair was straggly. Her bones stuck out and her lips were gray.

I do not know where she is now. I do have an idea. My emotions are decidedly unmixed about this idea.

Good God, Eponine, what did I ever do to deserve you? I had not even killed a man before you came into my life. And yet there you were, trailing me, dirty and ugly and pitiful and sad. I cringed inwardly whenever you touched my skin or clothing. I did not hate you for it. I simply wished you would not do it. Perhaps now I hate you for it. You were a whore in your spare time, I suppose, and who knew what sicknesses, besides the dirt, that you carried?

My memory of you soured the moment your selfish death (but, I remember, I should be thankful for) took what little life there was in your eyes and I dropped your body in the bloody dirt.

Your weren't using, after all, and I certainly didn't have time to dig a grave.

Lord, I sound rather awful, don't I? It was just like when you were alive, wasn't it, 'ponine? Cruel, cruel Marius for not forcing himself to love an ugly urchin.

So now that you are dead things ought to be simpler, but my soured memory refuses to let this be. Let it go, I say to myself. She was young. She was poor. She died and she is dead, and it is a sorry thing but not your affair.

However, I cannot do this, so I deign to hate you instead.

Defend yourself to me, 'ponine—tell me what right you had to interfere with my life or to pretend I did you a disservice by being unable to love you?

Tell me why you had to ask for me in the throes of death. Tell me what right you had to ask me to comfort you. You did nothing to deserve it. Tell me why you subjected me to seeing you—blood in your mouth, dripping, then flowing, and blood on your shirt, and your breeches, and your hands, and mine. I shuddered when you touched me with those bloody, bony hands. They were like death. I urged to pull away, because i pitied you, but now that is not the case.

But—you cannot defend yourself, can you, Eponine?

You are dead.