Author's Note: It's been awhile, I know. College is hectic, and taking two online courses over the summer has not left much free time for me, either. However, I did manage to finish this in time for Barricade Day (which I unfortunately missed last year).
Any mistakes and grammatical errors are mine.
Enjoy!
She remembers the first time she saw his face.
She was running through the marketplace, scampering after her kid sister. She was barely paying attention to the begging figures that surrounded the carriages of the rich.
She had followed her sister into a less-crowded area, where the poor lined the streets still, but were too weak or too nervous to join their counterparts on the main roads. This is where the workingmen were rarely, the well-dressed even fewer, but nonetheless, he had made his way there.
He had been giving a few sous and a blanket to an older couple when she and her sister had rushed by. It was only for a moment, but never has she forgotten the bewildered expression of the young man, who at the time could have not been more than twenty, whose steel-blue eyes had met hers of hazel.
She remembers the first time she heard his voice.
She had been caught in the rain, unable to find shelter before she had become completely drenched by the water. Not that she searched that much, anyway. She didn't have much of home then, and still doesn't now, often seeking an alcove or a bridge to substitute as a roof or even the occasional abandoned building.
She had taken to wandering the streets instead, ignoring the fact that to others, this was strange behavior, embracing the rain instead of cowering from it. It was a joyful experience to her, an escape from what realities her rough life had forced upon her. She imagines in the way that children do, that things will one day be different. She hopes for a life of love, of happiness, things that she knows already at fourteen will never come true, no matter what she wishes.
She makes her way towards the Seine, finally taking shelter underneath one of its bridges.
"Did the rain catch you off guard, too, mademoiselle?" a voice asks from beside her, and she recognizes those eyes from just a few weeks before. He's different this time though, minus the rain. She had caught the trace of annoyance in his voice, but a tinge of amusement as well. His blond hair, which was neatly pulled back last time, has become a damp mess clinging to his face. She notices him shift uncomfortably, the white fabric of his shirt pressed against his skin. Any signs of a coat were absent.
She stares at him blankly.
"To think the sky was blue when I walked out the door this morning," he mutters, shuffling through the pages of the book he had under his arm.
She tries to peer at the pages. "What book is that?"
"The Federalist," he answers, not looking up from the book. "Rather, a series of essays written by men from New York defending the United States Constitution."
"Oh."
"It is not something I would normally read, but I found it in my father's study and he permitted me to borrow it." He closes the tome, an attempt to shield it from further rain damage. She doubts he would be carrying something like that around had he known the weather would be like this.
"It's a rather peculiar thing to be carrying around, isn't it?"
"I suppose, but it would make little difference if I were carrying Rousseau."
"That sort of thing interests you?"
"Indeed."
She remembers the first time she had been mesmerized by him.
She had accompanied her friend Marius to various meetings at the Musain before, but it was the first time she had been to one of the protests. He, alongside Marius and another, Feuilly, she thinks his name was, were taking turns in rallying the crowds, inciting the need for change. The rich passed in their carriages, while the poor listened intensely.
She barely recalls a word he said, but she recalls his passionate voice and how neatly the words had been put together. They almost remind her of the stories her mother at one time had read to her.
She remembers the first time they touched.
It was another protest, more than a year after the first. She's almost seventeen now, and him, not yet twenty-two. The July Revolution of 1830 had come and gone, King Charles X being replaced by Louis-Phillippe. The way the new leader was seen, he was just another king, something that did not settle well with many.
This particular protest, had received some unwanted attention by the gendarmes, which had led to the crowd scattering on sight.
She is caught spinning in the chaos, as people rush past her left and right. She tries to figure out what would be the best way to disappear, but before she has the chance, someone seizes her wrist and drags her down an alleyway.
Her instinct reaction, once she has control of her arm, is to strike him across the face. Of course, she almost does, before realizing it's him.
"Are you not aware that those gendarmes would be more than willing to have you spend a night or two in their custody for merely being a spectator?" he asks with annoyance. "Had you fallen they would not think twice about their horses trampling you."
"I can take care of myself, thank you." She folds her arms against her chest.
He snorts. She would have never expected that sound from him.
"What right do you have to judge?" She narrows her eyes at him. "With the life you live, with where you're from, you don't have to worry about the things I do—You wouldn't last a day in my shoes."
"Mademoiselle, my intention was not to offend," he says apologetically, and the tone startles her compared to what it was a few moments ago. "However, the last thing I would want to happen would be for someone to suffer for my own carelessness, which could have been the case today."
Somehow, she finds a way to understand, despite the fact that she is not sure if she does.
She remembers the first time she shouted at him.
She had been waiting for Marius in the Musain for a few hours to receive a letter that she was to pass on to the woman who had taken his heart.
Oh, how she had loathed it! She cared deeply for Marius, possibly enough for her to use the term "love." Despite this, she had agreed to deliver it, which in her eyes, felt pathetic. The man was capable of doing it himself, but she never questioned him about that detail, nor did she really care to. He had asked a favor of her, she accepted, and that was all.
"He may have done the errand himself," she hears the blond say from a nearby table when the sky had turned dark. She can't be certain how many hours must have passed, other than the sun was high in the sky when she arrived.
"Marius would have sent word," she counters, her hazel eyes focusing on the empty cobblestone streets below.
"You agreed to meet here at one, am I mistaken?"
"Two," she answers.
"Then I can assure you that you did not miss him, but mademoiselle, it is almost reaching midnight, and I must properly close lest I risk the Madame's wrath."
"Go ahead, I don't mind." She turns away from the window, taking a seat in an empty chair.
He clears his throat, and he takes a few cautious strides towards her. "The Madame would not be pleased if I left with you still here."
"I won't cause any harm, if that's your concern."
"It is not that, but rather, I doubt she would be pleased to find you here."
"But if I leave, there's a chance I'll miss Marius…"
The blond takes a deep breath. "I do not believe he will be coming, mademoiselle."
"I promised I'd deliver it!" she snaps, and he takes a step back, surprise etched in his features. She takes a moment to gather herself and calm down. "I'm sorry. You're probably right."
With that, she rises from the chair, and slowly makes her way towards the stairs. He follows close behind, before he places a hand on her shoulder. She turns to look at him, and she sees the sadness in his eyes.
"I apologize that he treats you this way."
Their eyes meet for a second, but she doesn't allow it to linger before she makes her way down the stairs and out the front door of the Musain.
She remembers the first time he held her…sort of…
It was the December of 1830. The temperatures had gone cold. Snow covered the streets. For the poor, shelter and heat were necessary if they were to survive, and those who were lucky enough found it. As for food, it had grown scarcer.
She had little in proper attire. She had a worn shawl and heavy boots, but that was it. She depended on others around her for warmth and protection from the winter's chill.
There was one night where she wasn't particularly lucky.
She doesn't recall how or when she ended up in the blond's tenement. She could still feel the cold against her skin as he set her down on the bed.
Wait, set her down? When had he picked her up? She had been sitting in an alcove at the side of the street, not too far from the Musain, with little protection from the blizzard that shunned nearly every Parisian from the streets.
She catches a glimpse of the snow-covered black coat hanging over a chair, and a hat covered in white dripping water onto the floor from a hook. She could faintly hear footsteps from another room, the clangs of metal and porcelain. She thought she could smell wood burning.
She isn't aware of how much time goes by when he walks into the room, carrying a steaming mug. He sets it down on the nightstand as he sits down on the bed.
"Mademoiselle?"
She barely takes notice, her eyelids heavy, and cannot bring herself to reply. He places a hand against her forehead, before taking hold of her wrist in search of a pulse. Despite him recently coming in from the cold, his touch is warm against her skin. He mutters something under his breath, before covering her up to her neck with a woolen blanket.
He rises to his feet and walks out of the room, soon returning with a cloth and a pot of warm water. Her eyes follow his movements as he sits down on the edge of the bed once more, setting the pot down at his feet. He dips the cloth into pot, getting rid of the excess water before he folds it neatly and places it across her forehead.
"Mademoiselle?" He tilts his head, concern in his eyes. He leans towards her slightly, and the back of his hand brushes against her cheek. "Do you hear me?"
She manages a curt nod, before trying to sit herself up.
"Careful." He reaches forward as if he is trying to stop her, never quite doing so.
She could feel her own weakness throughout her limbs, still stiff from the cold. She takes notice of how pale her skin appears, how thin her frame is underneath the blanket. From a mirror across the room, she sees how sunken in her cheeks are, how frail she must appear to be, how fragile she might actually be.
It takes a moment for her to register he is looking into that very same mirror.
She observes how tiny she is compared to him, how healthy he appears. She begins to feel self-conscious of the dirt on skin, the raggedness of her hair, as she lays on what must have been fresh sheets. He, despite the moments of haste, has a clean appearance, only a few strands of hair escaping from being pulled back. Underneath the blankets, her clothes are torn and patched, while his do not have a stitch undone…
She continues to make such comparisons until he offers her the mug of water, which by this point had cooled enough for her to drink. She tries to refuse it, but he grows persistent.
"Mademoiselle, you were out in the cold for a long while." His eyes focus directly on hers. "You need something warm, and at this point in time, this is the best I can offer, unless you would prefer some tea."
She shakes her head.
"If you are not going to do it for your own sake, then will you do it for mine? The last thing I would like to fret over tonight is a friend of mine knocking on Death's door."
Her eyes go wide at this, then she furrows her eyebrows, the wet cloth falling from her forehead. She croaks, "You consider me a friend, monsieur?"
"Does the label bother you?" He reaches for the fallen cloth before gesturing for her to take the mug from his hand.
"No, it does not, but what does is that we've been going back and forth in terms of formality instead of calling each other by name. To put in simply, if we were friends, I don't understand why we talk to each other in this way."
"With a statement such as that, that leads to the assumption we each know the other's name." He returns the cloth to the bucket.
"I've been to enough meetings to know yours, Monsieur Enjolras."
"I believe I have heard your name enough to know you are called Mademoiselle Jondrette."
"Eponine is what I prefer." She finally takes the mug from his hand.
"Enjolras," he replies with a curt nod. She smiles.
A few moments of silence pass. She takes a small sip of the warm water, and his eyes flicker to the flames of the fireplace visible from the doorway.
"I will start preparing dinner shortly, mademoi—Eponine." He turns his head towards her as he corrects himself. She fights the smirk on her lips. "Until then, do rest. It is my understanding that the streets are not the best conditions to be in, particularly in weather such as this, and if earlier events are of any indication, it would be unwise for you to return to them tonight."
She nearly chokes on her next sip of water. "Are you offering your home to me for the night?"
He glances to the ground in thought, before giving her a curt nod. "I believe I was about to suggest that, yes."
She coughs. "Are you certain?"
"If I have any understanding of what might happen otherwise, then yes, I am." He slowly rises to his feet, and she notes something strange in his voice, concern perhaps. "For I would prefer to avoid what would happen were you to return tonight."
He starts to walk towards the door when a thought occurs to her. "Are you not concerned of what people might think?"
He pauses with his hand on the doorframe. "Think of what?"
"I'm sure people saw you bring me here. Are you not concerned what they may say, what rumors they may spread?"
He hesitates for a moment. "If they truly noticed, they would have seen the state that you were in and would not make suggestions of other activities. However, if they only cast a single glance and came to other conclusions, that is something beyond my control."
"Your reputation is not a concern of yours?"
"It is, but people will think and believe what they wish, and there is little I can do about that. All that matters to me is that you and I know what happened, and nothing more."
She tries to form a reply, but he disappears from her sight before she has the chance.
She remembers the following morning.
Waking up in an unfamiliar place had frightened her before she had the opportunity to recall the previous night's events. She wasn't accustomed to waking up in an actual bed in a space that wasn't slowly turning into shambles, nor was she accustomed to waking up in some place warm.
"Enjolras?" she calls as she gets to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her. She walks towards the doorway, pausing in the doorframe at the sight of the man sleeping on the couch. There was a book opened against his chest. Most of his hair had come loose from its tie, nearly covering his face. Despite his haphazard appearance, he looked peaceful, and she was afraid to disturb him.
It's awkward for her to think she stared.
She was unsure of how long she stood there before he started to stir, causing the book to fall to the floor. He sits up quickly at the sound, his eyes wide as his gaze searches the floor. His eyes then flicker towards her, returning to his composure.
"How are you this morning?" he asks drowsily, rubbing his eyes as he sits on the couch's edge.
"I'm well." She smiles shyly, glancing at the floor. "Thank you."
"Hm?" He rises stiffly from the couch.
"Last night, bringing me here," she explains. "Thank you."
He nods curtly. "De rien."
She approaches him slowly, removing the blanket and hanging over the couch's arm. She feels indebted to him, for he may have saved her life, and she knows of no words to express her gratitude. She's tempted to make an offer she shouldn't, and she does not need to think too much to know that were she to make such an offer to him, knowing him as the man that he is, he would likely be insulted. She bites her tongue.
"Would you like something to eat?" He turns away and makes his way to the kitchenette, her trailing behind him.
She shakes her head, ignoring the emptiness in her stomach. "I shouldn't."
"I will not force you, Eponine, but after the state you were in last night, I would think it unwise to eat nothing." There was concern in his eyes, and behind that, there was something she could not put a name to. "I do not wish for anything in return, if that is what you fear."
He's already done too much. "I…I think I'll be able to find something…"
He leans against the counter and heaves a sigh of resignation. "If that is what you believe, I will not argue with you."
"Thank you." She starts to make her way to the door. "Again. Not just for such an offer, but for your help as well."
"With pleasure." He walks towards the door, placing his hand on the knob and opening the door. "However, if you change your mind, do not hesitate to call upon me. If you cannot find me here, you will likely find me at the Musain."
"I appreciate that." A small smile forms on her lips before she walks out the door. "Goodbye, Enjolras."
"Until we meet again." He dips his head.
She walks down the hall and starts down the stairs of the tenement, and she does not hear the door close until she is hidden from his sight.
She remembers the first gift he gave her.
It was shortly after the night she had spent in his apartment, may have been the same week, but of such specific details, she cannot recall.
She was sitting in the Musain with him, long after the other men had left. She had even let Marius go with a brief goodbye. She was uncertain of why she had decided to stay there with Enjolras. Maybe to avoid the bitter cold for as long as she could, or to sneak the scraps of food the men had left behind though she had yet to touch any of it.
"It is almost midnight, Eponine," he says as he gathers his papers. Without him saying anything more, she understands what he means.
She starts to rise from her chair without a word, and as she walks by him, he stops her by placing a hand on her shoulder.
"I have something for you."
She stays in place, watching him curiously as he goes to the opposite side of the room. He picks up a brown box from the floor, its lid kept closed by a neatly tied piece of yarn. With no expression on his face, he hands the box to her, before making a gesture with his head that suggests for her to open it.
"I don't think I can accept this." She tries to hand the box back to him, but he stops her by raising his hand.
"You do not even know what it is." His eyes return a pained expression.
"Likely something I shouldn't have or could never afford," she says as she places the box on the nearest table. "Something you likely went out of your way for."
"Perhaps," he answers with a tilt of his head. "Yet you will not know unless you look."
She lets her curiosity get the best of her and she starts to unravel the bow. Once it's undone, she turns her head as he watches expectantly behind her. She removes the lid and sets it aside, revealing a tan, worn coat.
"The only way I went out of my way for it was rummaging through my closet," he tells her as she removes the coat from the box. "I have not used it in quite some time, and believed it would be of better use to you than collecting dust."
"I…" She holds the coat against her, comparing its size to her small frame.
"If you wish to have it adjusted, there is a seamstress in my tenement who can—"
She cuts him off with a sudden but brief embrace. She feels him stiffen under her touch, and quickly pulls away. "Sorry. Thank you."
"De rien."
She remembers the first time she kissed him.
The skies were threatening rain that day. She and Enjolras had been walking along the Seine, discussing their individual opinions on a variety of subjects, telling stories of their youths. She occasionally would glance at the strangers passing by, the judgmental looks on their faces. She wondered if he had even taken notice of it.
She recalls dashing to the nearest bridge for shelter that day, him trailing after her, using his coat as a poor excuse for an umbrella. She's laughing at his exasperation while admiring the way the rain plasters his loose strands of hair to his face, and she thinks back to the day she had seen him with the one book of his father's.
"I should know better by now, not to leave without an umbrella." He takes a deep breath.
"To think you would have learned from previous mistakes," she giggles lightly.
"Indeed," he chuckles.
Then all she hears is rain.
She finds herself staring into his steel-blue eyes that flicker towards the falling rain. Her hand gently reaches up and brushes his cheek, returning his attention to her. There's a half-smile on his face. She leans forward, and places her lips upon his.
He doesn't reciprocate. Rather, he stiffens and pulls away.
She knows instantly she has made a major mistake. Oh, what a fool she is! She tries to run off, but he catches her wrist before she can return to the rain.
"I would rather that I explain myself before you disappear because of that."
"I misunderstood your feelings, monsieur, there is nothing to explain." She tries to free herself, only for him to pull her closer to him.
"Now, do not go back to formalities." She can hear the frustration in his voice. "We have known each other too long for that."
"I shamed you, in public, no less." She cannot bring herself to look him in the eye. "Formalities should be the least of your worries."
He shakes his head. "Eponine, please, just let me explain."
"I should leave you."
"You can make that decision firmly once you allow me to tell you why I behaved like that." There's pleading in his voice, and she looks up to see the hint of fear in his eyes. "I need you to understand that it is not because I do not have romantic inclinations towards you. Such emotions, I am unsure of presently, but I…I do know this, that I care for you deeply, and would hate for any harm to come to you."
She raises an eyebrow. "You do?"
"Yes," he answers sincerely, nodding curtly.
His free hand reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from her face, and her head leans into the touch. She barely notices that the grip on her wrist has vanished, and that the hand that was there rests near her shoulder. There's a gentle look in his eyes, a softness in his expression.
The rain clears.
She remembers the first time he kissed her.
Two months had passed since she had kissed him. They had officially began courting one another, as far as their parents were concerned, by May 1831. His parents, owners of a local printshop, had been hesitant at first not by her class, but rather her family history, and feared that she could take advantage of their son's benefits. Her parents, meanwhile, were rather joyous of their daughter finding someone above their social standing.
The pair of them were sitting in the upstairs room of the Musain in candlelight, watching the nightly occurrences of the streets below. His focus was directed on a pamphlet's draft that Feuilly was to pick up the following morning. She observed the poor take shelter and night figures emerge from their shadows, while ladies of the night gathered beneath lampposts.
"That spelling is incorrect again…" he mutters from the table, taking his pen and ink to make the correction.
"Shall we be leaving soon?" she asks, turning her head towards him.
"I am on the final page. I only need to finish corrections here and then read through it once more to ensure I did not miss any." He doesn't look up. She emits a yawn. "I apologize for keeping you. Though I would not prefer it, you may head home. I would much rather escort you, as I have before."
She shakes her head. "Ah, yes, escort me to run-down building that is the Gorbeau House. Your clothes are enough for anyone hanging about to attack. I would much rather stay at your place instead."
"We have discussed the implications of what such would do," he replies with a deep breath, taking a look through the most recent correction. "That, and you know of what my parents would think of that prior to marriage, let alone an engagement."
"Since when do other's thoughts affect you?"
"You are referencing a situation that may have resulted in your demise. In that instance, I recall my words referring something along the lines of if others were ignorant of the matter at hand." He closes the pamphlet and then reopens it from the beginning.
She sits down across from him. "You would rather risk your life escorting me home than either have me go home by myself or follow you to your tenement?"
He glances up for a moment, then returns to looking through the pages. "It is the proper thing to do, if I am not mistaken?"
"That's my understanding."
"Are we in agreement, then?" He is halfway through the pamphlet.
"Reluctantly, yes."
On the way to the Gorbeau House, he walks with her, arm in arm. She takes in the way the moonlight reflects on his hair, the way she sees stars in his eyes. They speak of the future, of what their lives could eventually be. He speaks without making a single reference to politics, something that seems odd to her, but in a good sort of way.
"What of children?" she brings herself to ask, and she watches for his reaction. A part of her expects him to give her a blank expression, or maybe confusion, but instead, he smiles.
"One day, perhaps, but not before the revolution—It would be putting too much at risk. The last thing I would want to do is leave our child without its father."
"Our child?"
"Is it wrong for me to believe we may reach that point?"
She stifles a laugh despite the defensive tone in his voice. "No, not at all."
When they reach the Gorbeau House, there are a few moments of silence involved with a hesitant goodbye. She finds she cannot bring herself to part from him. He is the one who slowly unravels their entwined arms, a faint smile on his lips.
"Shall I meet you in the Luxembourg Gardens tomorrow?" she asks when he now only has a hold of her hand.
He nods curtly, before kneeling down briefly to press a kiss to the back of her hand. "Until then."
She reluctantly slides her hand away before going inside, him standing there as the door closes.
By the time she reaches her family's upstairs window, she can already see his form starting to disappear from view. However, the touch on her hand lingers.
She remembers their wedding day.
She couldn't believe it. It was happening. Something she only dreamed of, a childhood fantasy.
It was his mother who arranged for the dress, for the only clothes Eponine had were the ones she had on her back, them and her tan coat he had given her. His mother had taken her to a seamstress, who had measured her and poked and prodded her with pins. It was a simple, cream-colored dress. The sleeves were short and edged with lace, as was the skirt. She was borrowing the veil from his mother as well.
Madame Enjolras was a kind woman, Eponine had noted that quickly upon meeting her. She and her son shared a similar compassion, a gentle heart, but Eponine also knew the woman was responsible for those cold, glaring eyes Enjolras carried, and the only difference in that was the Madame's were silver, his were blue.
After Madame Enjolras and the female companion of Enjolras' friend Joly named Musichetta had finished brushing through her hair and styling it, they finally allowed her to look in the mirror.
Then so much hit her at once and she felt ill. Had this all gone so fast? It was only early December. They hadn't courted for long, nor were engaged for that long, either. Maybe this was wrong. Maybe they should have waited, perhaps another few months at least? Did she really want this? Could she be a good wife? Oh, dear, she was going to be someone's wife. Before sunset, she would have a husband. Someone to care for her, to watch over her. Was that something she wanted? She had wanted it, she had thought she wanted it, and…
Now she was not quite sure.
"Are you all right?" Musichetta asks, helping her sit down.
Eponine looks up to see how pale her face appeared in the mirror, the cause of the woman's concern. "I…I do not know."
"There is no wrong in being nervous, dear," Madame Enjolras kneels down to meet her eyes. "I had my time, too."
Eponine gives the older woman a quizzical look, receiving a soft expression in return.
"I was not much older than you when I married my husband." Madame Enjolras grasps the folded hands on Eponine's lap. "Unlike you and my son, however, our parents had not given us much of a choice. It was a business arrangement, more than anything. I had only met him a few times before the wedding, one being the agreement made by our parents and another for his proposal. Nothing was for love. The first few months was mostly spent getting used to the other's company. It was not until almost two years, when Corentin was born, did I admit that I might care for him, and I would like to say the same for my husband.
"If you doubt my son's love for you, for a moment, look in his eyes." She gently squeezes Eponine's hands. "I have watched him speak with passion in his eyes for his country, and only have I ever seen it otherwise when he talks about you."
Within the next few hours, she signs the papers and walks down the aisle. As expected, he is there, his eyes never leaving hers the entire time.
She remembers the accident.
It was April of 1832.
She accompanies him to one of speeches. It is a civil one, of course, meaning to serve as an argument as to why people should join their cause of a new republic. He stirs their spirits with his convincing words, passion in his voice. He wants to encourage their hearts for when the time comes that they will join him and his companions.
She stands in front of the crowd with pride, and clings on to every word. Her hand unconsciously drifts over her stomach, for reasons unknown to him as long as Joly kept his promise of secrecy; she doesn't want to worry him.
He is starting to conclude when the gendarmes appears.
Everyone scatters.
As they have discussed before, she is to run as far and as quickly as she can, back to the tenement, if possible. They will meet there, but if the other is not back within a few hours then to start asking around. If they end up following one another, there is no conflict in that, but that should only be a coincidence and nothing more.
She trips, and in the panic, no one saw her or watched where their feet went.
She sees a flash of red before her world goes black.
He will never forget her screams that day.
It's Feuilly's place they end up being closest to, and Joly helps him carry her to the fanmaker's cot, setting her down gently. Joly suspects she may have a concussion, bruised or broken ribs, and the doctor could not be certain of what else.
He sees the fear in her eyes when she comes to, but what jars him are her screams.
He wants to go over and soothe her, help calm her as Joly examines the gash against her hairline, but the doctor has strongly urged him that his place by the window is best. There originally was the suggestion for him to leave the room, but he would not abandon her.
He cannot bring himself to.
She is fighting the doctor, ignoring the pain as she tries to get away. The pain must be too much for her to get up, though, for as she tries to stand, she nearly stumbles to the floor. He can see the concern in Joly's eyes as he helps her back into the bed. Even after that, she struggles, but less-so.
"Eponine, I need you to breathe calmly for me please. The stress is not good for you or the child, especially after what you have been through." Joly asks gently, trying to look her in the eye.
Enjolras turns his head sharply. A child?
"Papa told me to get rid of it though!" she shouts at the doctor, her hands fisting the sheets. "He needs my help tomorrow. I can't work having to worry about it; it'll slow me down."
Joly's eyebrows furrow in confusion, glancing towards him. "Eponine, do you know who I am?"
"A doctor."
"Good." Joly gestures to the blond at the window. "Do you know who he is?"
"No, but I've seen him a few times. He's a friend of Marius'," she answers confidently. Her face cringes from the pain, and he can only watch as Eponine places her hand over her stomach.
"She does not remember who I am," he whispers, and he sinks to the floor, his mind still reeling from the previous shock. His eyes still rest on Eponine and Joly, and notices the grim look on the doctor's face as he notices the blood on sheets near her legs.
It's at this Joly calls Feuilly into the room. Enjolras barely takes any notice when the fanmaker helps him to his feet and escorts him out of the room.
Only when she screams does he fight to get back in there. Feuilly, of course, stops him each time.
"He will do what he can—she's in good hands." Feuilly gently pulls him back from the door. "I understand this can't be easy for you."
Time takes too long to pass. Enjolras and Feuilly spend almost two hours in the hallway, waiting for the screams to cease and for Joly to emerge. Enjolras wishes he could have picked out what the doctor was saying, but between her and the door, it proves difficult.
Finally, ten minutes after she goes quiet, Joly finally emerges, carrying a white bundle of bloodied cloth.
"She's resting, for now, at least." Joly takes a deep breath. "I would leave her alone for a few hours, the poor thing. I think she will be fine, though. The worst of it was the hit on the head, and with some hope, her memories will return in due time."
"And the child?" he brings himself to ask.
Joly glances down at the bundle in his arms, pursing his lips before shaking his head. "I'm sorry."
Enjolras waits until the following morning to check on her. Feuilly had already left by now, having slept the previous night at his desk, while Enjolras had sat by the bedroom door. He cannot remember moving from that spot, nor can he recall falling asleep.
He cracks the door open, hoping not to disturb her. She is covered by a crocheted blanket Feuilly had stored in a trunk, as Joly had taken away much of the bedcovers and sheets.
He quietly took the chair from the foot of the bed and placed it beside the bed. She stirs a bit when the chair screeches briefly across the floor as he sits down, but she does not waken. He listens to her mutter in her sleep, watches her smile, things he has witnessed in their four months of sharing a bed. The way her nose will occasionally twitch, the way she laughs…
He wonders if he will ever see it again.
He cannot bring himself to tell her the truth.
He cannot cage her up, cannot force her to stay as much as he wishes it. Unless her memories return, he will not try to force feelings she has no recollection of.
He lets her go.
He begins to drown himself in his work, shifts his focus onto the cause. Disease spreads, tensions rise. He lets it all distract him from the grief.
His friends notice this. They suggest for him to sit down for a moment to rest. He tries to sleep, but only the horrors of that day flash through his mind.
He will occasionally catch glimpses of her. In the hours before learning of Lamarque's death, he sees her at a rally within the crowd and later in the streets outside the Musain, speaking with Marius. Shortly after hearing from Gavroche that Lamarque has died, he notices her on the stairs, only for Marius to follow her, for what reason he does not know.
"Give her time." Combeferre places a hand on his shoulder. "She will come back to you, I promise that."
The morning of June fifth is a blur to him, from Lamarque's funeral to the building of the barricades. When night falls upon them, the battle begins. Though he is worried about what is to come, he does not let that control him in the battle to stay alive.
He sees her in Marius' arms when the smoke clears. Red blossoms upon her dirtied white shirt, not hidden by the tan coat. He does not know how he had missed her presence upon the barricade. Had he noticed, he would have told her to leave, to stay safe. She may have listened, may not have, but it would have been better if she had kept away, stayed with her family. She would have been much safer with them than him.
She knows he's watching. If Marius' call for Joly hadn't caught his attention, the sight of her without her cap would have.
She knows that he's fighting his emotions right now. He is soaked with rain and gunpowder, his eyes on her helplessly. There's nothing he can do, nothing anyone can do, except watch as she dies before their very eyes.
The last thing she remembers seeing is the face of man whom she had encountered under the bridge all those years ago.
He remembers the last time he held her.
The rain, for a moment, has ceased falling. He takes her gently from Marius' arms, and he carries her into the Musain. He takes her to the back, away from the eyes of the traitor near the stairs. The last thing he wants him being tortured by his mistakes.
And he feels he has made so many.
He sets her down in the corner. He kneels beside her, his fingers brushing her already-cold face. He takes her hand, no longer feeling the warmth it once did. He pulls her close, hiding his face in her shoulder. He does not keep track of the time they remain like this.
By dawn, he knows his time is coming. All of the other barricades have fallen—They are the only ones left.
It happens too quickly. Gavroche killed retrieving ammunition. The cannons sound in his ears. Bahorel, Marius, and Bossuet are down before the survivors have the opportunity to scramble into the Musain and up the stairs. Feuilly and Prouvaire are struck while throwing glass bottles at the Guardsmen. Things fall silent for a few moments, as he, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly wait in terror. Bullets shoot up from the floorboards, and the three fall around him.
He is the only one left.
His back is to the front window of the Musain when the Guardsmen make it upstairs. He stares them down, tired but defiant.
And he will not be defeated.
Just as their leader commands his men to ready the guns and aim, a shout from the stairs distract them and him.
"Vive la république! I am one of them!" Grantaire.
He had thought the skeptic had abandoned them as the people had. A part of him wishes Grantaire had never said that. He could have gotten away from this, he could have survived this slaughter.
Grantaire offers his hand to him. "Do you permit it?"
Enjolras nods and takes his hand. He smiles.
Before the gunshots of the firing squad resound, he has a moment to think of the girl he met under a bridge.
They remember them.