Summary: By some miracle, Joly saved him. And by some miracle, she, too, is saved—in more ways than one. The barricade has fallen, but life continues as Enjolras and Eponine try to recover from the fight that nearly claimed their lives.
Characters: Enjolras, Eponine, Joly, Musichetta, Marius, Cosette, Les Amis.
Word count: 1,873
Universe: A mixture of the book, musical, and movie. Much of the characterization stems from the book while plot points follow the movie/musical.
Warnings: PTSD, depression, suicidal thoughts/actions, mentions of homosexuality, mentions of abuse/rape, substance abuse, death, religious imagery/allusions/practice (to some extent they're Catholics), and other things. I'll make a specific warning if necessary.
1.
Enjolras opened his eyes very quickly and suddenly, only to snap them shut just as fast. The intensity of the bright whiteness that surrounded him was overwhelming. Slowly, he tried opening them again—this time, with success. He cautiously scanned his new surroundings. Most of the furnishings were white, including the walls, ceiling, what he could see of the rug, and his bedding. The floor, chair, and bookshelf were all made of dark wood. Enjolras couldn't make out any titles of the books, but most looked quite thick. A light breeze drifted through an open window. He couldn't hear much other than a ringing in his ears, but he could make out a rare blue sky. Everything seemed neatly kept and in order. It was a far cry from the state of his own apartment, Combeferre's, or any hospital he had ever seen.
I'm dead, he realized.
I'm dead.
I'm dead.
His head shot up and he groaned out loud as he slammed it back into his pillows. The room around him began to spin and blur. He heard the sound of the head board hitting the wall behind it. The door swung open and a man and woman rushed into the room.
"Mary, Peter, tell my friends I am so, so sorry," Enjolras whispered as his eyes fluttered shut. Before he fully lost consciousness, he heard a familiar voice speak.
When Enjolras next woke, it was darker in the white room. The only light came from a candle on his bedside table. From the light of the candle, he saw a young woman with long brown hair sitting in the chair next to his bed. She read a book, though her expression made her seem deep in thought about something horrible. She seemed on the verge of tears and trying to hide it. Though Enjolras's only experience with women came from his mother and few cousins, he was still a gentleman and he felt obliged to help (although another part of his brain wondered if God had created some sort of test to gauge his worth).
"Mary," he croaked, as he lifted a shaking hand.
The woman looked up and gasped. "Oh, no! Monsieur Enjolras you must go back to sleep before you hurt yourself! Joly sad that you hit your head very hard and even I know that it could be very serious," the woman said frantically as she tried to push his hand back down.
Enjolras paused. "What do you mean by Joly? Wh- what is going on? I'm dead, aren't I, Mary?"
The woman gave a slight shake of her head. "Monsieur, I think that you should go back to sleep now. It can be explained in the morning," she whispered.
"Just tell me. Please tell me. Where am I? Where are my friends?"
The woman didn't say anything, but her grip on Enjolras's hand tightened and she began to push him back into his pillows.
"Tell me!" he said more forcefully. "Where are my friends? Where am i?"
"You're safe, okay. That's all that matters, isn't it?" she whispered as her eyes began to water. Enjolras, however, paid no attention to that.
"Tell me what has become of my friends!" he demanded. "You are an angel of the Lord if not Mary. Surely you know!"
"Monsieur, you need to go back to sleep!"
Enjolras sat up and tried to brush the woman's hands aside. Despite the way the room spun around him, he was determined to make it to the door and discover what was going on. He was swinging his feet out of the bed amid the woman's protests when the door opened and Joly entered the room.
Enjolras nearly fainted.
"What is going on?" he whispered as he collapsed back onto his bed.
"You're alive," Joly said simply.
"And the others?" Enjolras asked, dreading the answer he felt coming but desperate to know for certain what had become of his friends.
"I'm not sure. No one is. But…" Joly trailed off.
"We can guess what has happened to them," the woman (who Enjolras realized must be Musichetta) said solemnly.
"But-but did anyone else…" Enjolras's voice caught in his throat.
"We're only sure about you and another."
"Who?" Enjolras asked.
"I believe you used to refer to her as Marius's shadow," Joly remarked.
Enjolras was confused for a split second until the image of a young boy—no more than thirteen—weeping over the emancipated body of his sister entered his mind.
"Gavroche's sister," he muttered.
"Yes, that's her," Joly confirmed.
"You wouldn't happen to know her name, would you? Whenever she's awake, I just call her Marie," said Musichetta.
"Haven't you asked?" said Enjolras.
"Yes," Musichetta replied, "but she doesn't say very much. Mostly she just cries a bit or wanders around the flat."
"I recall it beginning with an 'E'. Perhaps Elaine or Emeline," Enjolras remarked, sifting through his few memories of the girl.
"Though I do seem to recall Marius referring to her once or twice with the nickname of 'Ponine," Joly added. Enjolras rolled his eyes at his friend's attempt at extending the conversation. It was obvious there was something Joly was trying to avoid. Enjolras could almost laugh at his fear. Then he realized what the topic he was avoiding was.
If the others were alive they would have hid out somewhere safe and with someone they trusted. Who did Bossuet trust more than Joly and Musichetta?
No one.
The reality of what had occurred hit him like a load of bricks. If he hadn't been sitting down already, he would have collapsed with the weight of it all.
They were dead. All of his friends were dead. Oh sure, there was a slight chance that they could have escaped like he and Joly had somehow managed to, but what were the actual chances of that happening? In fact, it was a wonder that he and Joly had managed to make it out alive. The entire event had been a disaster.
A disaster he had orchestrated.
Enjolras swallowed. His thoughts began to swirl around him. He couldn't focus. All he could see was Grantaire, the stupid drunk, wobbling over to him as the soldiers raised their guns. All he could see was the face of Gavroche as Coufeyrac sobbed over his body. And all he could hear were gunshots.
"Enjolras—are you okay?" Joly asked. Enjolras looked up to see his friend holding his arm. Not far behind him was Musichetta, looking just as worried.
Enjolras tried to smile, but knew that Joly and Musichetta would not be fooled. He hoped, though, that the two of them would catch on and leave him with his thoughts. Thankfully, Joly and Musichetta's complicated relationship with Bossuet seemed to have taught them the art of tact, so they shuffled out quickly, requesting that he find them should he need anything.
He didn't think he would.
The open window had proved to be quite the convenience for Enjolras. It opened up onto a low hanging roof that had a ladder beneath it. Even in his weakened state, Enjolras had found it quite easy to escape the confines of the house. The climb was not kind to his weary legs, but he stumbled along no worse than the average drunk. Besides, the cover of the darkness provided enough of a disguise should Joly or Musichetta happen to be out.
He wandered through the streets avoiding ever passersby who came his way. Occasionally a woman would call out to him, but he would just turn the other way. There was a time when he would have helped them, he recalled; a time when he would have given each a portion of his heavy purse so that they could buy bread or find a place to sleep for the night. He had once gone out of his way to help men and women and children alike. He had spoken for the people.
And how had they repaid him?
His mind began to swirl again and he found himself on a bridge. It was low, close to the water. And the water was swirling like his mind.
He stared at the water—black and deep and hopeless—and in it, he swore he could see his fallen friends. There was Jean and Marius and Coufeyrac and Combeferre, all staring up at him and laughing merrily at some joke of the past.
He had led them to their deaths. Hey no longer lived nor spoke nor ate because of him. They would never see the light of day again nor feel the chill of the night. Their parents and their families would be mourning, he realized. They would be mourning what their children had lost.
Marius, the lovesick fool, would never marry that girl of his. Coufeyrac would never entertain his—or anyone else's—offspring with the wild stories of his romantics escapades. Combeferre would never become a doctor. No woman would ever hold another of Feuilliy's fans.
And Grantaire. That idiotic drunk who had made Enjolras' life hell so often. The realization that he would no longer be a thorn in his side made Enjolras gasp for air as he leaned over the railing, gazing into the Seine. His heart pounded in his chest. It started to become hard to breathe.
"I can't go on," he whispered as he stared at the murky waters below him.
He began to climb onto the railing, not caring who saw. Suicide was eternal damnation, but so was murder—and he had murdered every single one of his friends in a single try. Quickly, he recited the Lord's Prayer in his head, hoping that there would be mercy in his actions.
He took a deep breath and prepared to jump.
"Monsieur! Monsieur, you can't," a woman yelled.
The cry was just enough to cause Enjolras to lose his balance and fall onto the pavement. Quickly, he attempted to regain his footing, but wound up collapsing at the feet of none other than Marius' shadow as she lent down to help him.
She was a familiar sight and he saw the recognition in her face. Next came confusion.
"Monsieur Joly said that you were ill, though. He said that even if you woke you would not be able to stand, none the less walk, for a week, Monsieur…" she trailed off.
"Enjolras. That's what most call me," he said.
"But how did you get out? How did you even walk? And why…" she stopped, realizing what she was about to say. Her cheeks flushed red.
"Never mind that Madame…" he trailed off, realizing that, despite what he had told Joly and Musichetta, he did not actually recall her name.
"Eponine. It's just Eponine, Monsieur," she mumbled, looking embarrassed. Enjolras decided not to press the matter of address, and instead focus on the problem at hand.
"Right, Eponine. You're out of the house, too, so I don't see why—"
"Do not worry, Monsieur Enjolras. I will not speak a word of this to another soul," Eponine promised. "Do you need help finding your way back?" she added.
Enjolras nodded and Eponine took him by the arm, leading the way back to Joly's flat.