Hello! This is my first ever Les Miserables fanfiction and I thought I would give it ago. This is also quite a new writting style for me so tell me if you like it. I will do a Poem at the start and end of each chapter because I wrote some that I think go really well. Please review or leave a PM all comments welcome!

THE MISERY OF THE DARKEST NIGHT

Darkness seeping slowly in,

Filth which penetrates the bone,

Without life or home.

Eternal night,

Where no morning means no relief,

Without hope or belief.

Misery beckons at the door,

Starved of time and hungry with pain,

Without anyone to blame.

When someone has indeed, spiralled so far down the ladder of unrighteous. That they can no longer see the clear pure sky where they sit on their ledge of filth and mortality

between the lurking evil and the degraded hopeless. It is only then from this pitiless place that you could even think to try and comprehend the thoughts of the young seventeen year old wretch, who had tumbled so far down this cricked, splintered wooden ladder. Pulled down to these depths by her society, by her country, by her progression of life and most mercilessly, by her parents.

Although some may ask when does a parent stop being a parent, no longer a father or mother, instead becoming more like a leech; a monstrous animal that lives only to degrade the life of others. Well I can tell you that the Thénardiers stopped being parents on that fateful day in Montfermeil when the comforting facade of wealth was torn from them like one would pull the leaves from the holly bush, nothing was left but the feeble crumbs of poverty which seeps through to the bone turning even the most innocent flower into a bitter thorn, withered and spoilt and spent.

And so as the Thénardiers treaded the path of poverty and corruption it was impossible that, while living amongst all the horrible of the world, the young girl, Éponine would reach through the eternal night and come away unfettered and victorious. And impossible it was. She was marred by the filth of crime, by the sweat of conviction and by the embodiment of all poverty stands for.

She lent, bent double like the labourers of old. Without the coat, her body had a lean look to it — betraying that she had worked too long, and ate too little or too poorly. Her gloves and tall brown boots were caked with the dying filth of the street, and she was wearing pants like a man, with large brass buttons that were no longer as bright as they had been in there former days. Her long, dark hair was piled up and back, but two shifts of work had picked it apart and heavy strands had scattered, escaping the brittle combs cracked and old, that she'd used to hold it all aloft.

If one was to state what about her that would say resident in the eyes, their immediate answer would have to be the look in her eyes. Like no other. Although her body was broken and her face bittered by hatred, her eyes were alive. Alive like the stars. You could say they were mostly a turtle green with flares and streaks of gold that caught the sun at early noon and lit her bath.

"Like golden gems!" Some would say and others could reply, "As brilliant and terrible as lucifer himself!"

However one thing that was certain to any passer who found themselves lost in the power of her eyes, was that they held a knowledge that was beyond the young waifs years. A terrible yet wonderful knowledge, that had been stamped into her very sole by the events she had witnessed and the deeds she had performed.

As she crouched in the darkness of Saint Michele's lurking streets, it seemed that she herself was feeding from the shadows. She would slither through the darkness, the eternal night speaking pockets of blackness that would welcome her familiar form once again. She was the unseen face of crime. The face that ghosted past just before you found yourself relived of your purse and possessions. The face that was as old as time but still lay hidden in a mist of fear. The face which pursued everything yet achieved nothing. As it was she held the face of poverty. Some may take a book and try to look up the meaning of the word poverty, what they will find is no more than a simple phrase of words; deficiency of necessary or desirable. May I tell you that on no account can poverty be described. To comprehend poverty you need look no further than young Éponine's face, you need look no further than young Éponine's home, you need look no further than young Éponine's life. And indeed when you have looked this far there will be no need for you to look up the meaning of poverty at all.

As she slipped through the streets, nimble and quick on her feet despite the aches and pangs of hunger, she felt as if the very heavens knew of her failures and had no pity on her. Just a few minutes past the very skies had opened up and seen it as their duty to flush there ver contents onto poor Éponine's slight person.

Her destination- no where in particular. She didn't know where to go or what to do so she just let go. Like a lovebird leaving a cage or a swallow in flight. She flew with the night at her side.

Flying as though a bird bunt not tamed and pampered such as a lark, no something worsened, something darker with its secrets and vices, something mysterious. A crow, the epitome of grief, elegance and spite. Everything Éponine embodied and all that any gamine stood for and held proud. However just like any piece of armour there was the smallest chink, maybe not apparent to the nakedness of ones eye, but through the layers of filth and the facade of indifference it was made known that Éponine did indeed have but one 'chink' and that was Monsieur Marius. The dashingly handsome and chivalrous boy who resided next door was the lone consumer of poor, dear Éponine's thoughts, dreams and fantasies. He was everything Éponine had ever craved. A comforter with a tender and loving hand, a lover with a beautiful and cherishing smile and a friend with good will and honesty on his mind. The truth was Éponine was so lonely that she would even greet death its self like a common friend and shake it by the hand. "Mon dieu! Je suis seul!" she would think to herself in a beautiful but terrible self pitying act of desperate need of consolation. It seemed to have been the wretchedness of her life or maybe it was the hunger pains in her stomach or the fear of what tomorrow could bring, or perhaps all three that led her past the point of no return. it was clear simple and cold, she was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Monsieur Marius.

Such was the sight of this pitiful ignorance that turned the wheels in even the coldest and bitterest of hearts. Her feet seemed to find there way, carving a path of mud and filth that was so putrid that the squalor beneath her feet seemed to reek of a certain mort.

As she slipped through the streets she watched the creatures lurking in the shadows, the wretched, the withered, the dying, the dead. all soles who were born to die.

There is nothing as nauseating and woeful as a child born to die. A child whose sole purpose on this earth is to suffer hardships, live in absolute poverty then expire before there time. However hard one may try to relive this imprudent act from the world, by charities or knowledge or some other failed tactic already used by their brothers before them, all they are doing is waisting their breath and time. for it is obviously gods will to strike fear into the heart of mortal men by showing displays of such punishments. A child born to die. There are too many to name but young Éponine already new, even at her slight age that she was also one of these terrible creatures.

Shadows flickered and voices beckoned full of all death stands proud for. Éponine swished silently, like a fox, quick and sly her chemise catching the glowing light of the moon and projecting the rays out like the cracked and disorderly lines of a broken mirror. Seeping down to the parisian slums and landing upon wickedness and ruin, surely a great change from the glorious heavens in which they came from. It was this light and the speed and confidence of her stance that alerted the nearby, preying Montparnasse of her presence.

He rose without hesitation and swiftly leaned into the chase, playing a game with both Éponine and the shadows. Disappearing and reappearing like he, himself was part of the old travelling circus.

She knew he was there but was not afraid. She couldn't feel afraid when all she felt was pain everyday . When one has felt pain for as long as Éponine had then it was easy to forget all else and only focus on the crunching of bones and the spilling of blood.

"'Parnasse," her gravely voice spoke breaking out from the shadows which loomed ever on, "I can feel your breath, following me through the air like a phantom."

He smiled, his beautiful masculine lips drawing, like the string in a bow, up into a coy smile. He raised his rough, calloused hands in mock surrender and drew closer till his mouth lay in line with her filthy ear.

"I bring word from your old Pa," said he with a soft smile as he tugged on her thin shoulder, "Come."

Even then when she knew what ever it was that here dear 'Papa' wanted her for, would not be good she still felt herself be dragged by the bond of family that was drawing more taught with every passing hour.

"Montrer la voie" spoke Éponine.

Darkness welcomes every day to a close and turns away every light with a waft of wretched weight against its sole until it goes crisp and hard with morbid thought. Like the pages in a book which harden and blemish and flicker into dust that will get swept away with the flick of a wrist. Darkness is the old friend which welcomes Éponine back home like an aime. From the doorway she could not make out a thing in the dull light of the flat and had to blink hard against the lack of light which seemed to penetrate her very sole with its greatness. She moved her hand along the wall and had a pause when she came to the table where the rest of the candle stubs resided.

She struck the flint once, twice and then the meagre spark blossomed and lit the flaking candle which needed a new wick. The room suddenly became that much more brighter so she could make out the desperate sleeping forms of her mother, father and sister. She meandered toward the forms and lifted her foot slightly, just next to her fathers ear before slamming it to the old concrete floor with a profound and unmistakable force that seemed to resonate through the frail girl like an unworldly power.

He was awake in an instance. Eyes flying open in sheer gluttony. Hands opening and brandishing a knife. Teeth clenched. Muscles tensed. Awake and alert.

"Papa."

"Eponine." Came the snarled reply that looked at her with such malice only lightening slightly once her name tripped from her tongue. He rose to his full dwarfish height and glared down at the soiled sheet as it fell from his shoulders and drifted to lie against the floor. The old man stood in his ransom under layers with no cap or socks and with his gnarled beard twisted and frayed. He seemed to let his behaviour shift in some kind of dark way so that he was standing with a cruel smirk and twinkling eyes.

"Ponine! Mon Fille!" He cooed wrapping an arm around her emaciated waist, "You are just who I needed, now listen quick and sharp, that old wolf has come prowling up and down my street here one-two many times. The boys and I have all agreed! We ought to be rid of him! Tomorrow. Nine thirty. When he reaches the point, you my dear will lead him our way, coax him if you please into our den, it'll be done good and quick before noon."

He had paused to make sure that slight Éponine had followed but all he saw were vacant looking eyes and a hungry mouth.

"I will be counting on you now girl and you better be there or else!"

With a curt nod Éponine shrank away into the gloom and found her patch of straw and old twigs, somewhere where a dog should lay! She fell upon it in minutes but stayed with her eyes wide and watching Montpanarsse' steady figure slide down the wall and join the rest of her family, in name only, in their unpleasant slumber.

A sleep filled so much of night demons and monsters who would lurk behind the sole ready to claim you when you passed over to the region of sleep. Then they would have their rule in the night which seemed to be everlasting and eternal, for even though the morning would indeed come and bring the lighter of children with it. Even then, the darkness will slowly follow and the morning will be stained and tarnished in all those who perform darkness. Even then, morning will bring no relief and night will bring the fears back.

Even then.

Even then, when bulbs grow and flowers bloom in the shimmering summer, the winter will come and ice will fall, Even then.