Title: Their Last Communion

Author: Camberleigh Fauconbridge

Rating: PG - 13 / T

Pairings: Enjonine [Éponine/Enjolras], implied Mosette [Marius/Cosette]

Summary: In which Jean Valjean leads the revolutionaries in prayer the night before their deaths, and in which Enjolras reflects. Movieverse. "Drink with Me", with a twist. One-shot.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables and its musical counterpart are the property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Alain Boublil, Herbert Kretzmer, Trevor Nunn, John Caird, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of Les Misérables. No money is being made off this story, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: I saw the Les Misérables movie for the second time today, and when Eddie Redmayne reached the "Became their last communion" line, I thought of several things:

1) How Jean Valjean is sort of a Christ-figure.

2) How in Leonardo Da Vinci's The Last Supper, some people think Mary Magdalene is included.

3) How Éponine is sort of a Mary Magdalene-figure.

And thus, Their Last Communion.

And to the people who take this as Éponine/Jean Valjean… good God, no. It's É/E, people!

Enjoy!

On the first of the Days of Unleavened Bread, the disciples came to Jesus and said, "Where do You want us to prepare Your Passover meal?"

He said, "Enter the city. Go up to a certain man and say 'The Teacher says, My time is near. I and My disciples plan to celebrate the Passover meal at your house.'" The disciples followed Jesus' instructions to the letter, and prepared the Passover meal. After sunset, He and the twelve were sitting around the table. During the meal, He said, "I have something hard but important to say to you: One of you is going to hand Me over to the conspirators."

They were stunned, and then began to ask, one after another, "It isn't me, is it, Master?"

Jesus answered, "The one who hands Me over is someone I eat with daily, one who passes Me food at the table. In one sense the Son of Man is entering into a way of treachery well-marked by the Scriptures— no surprises there. In another sense that man who turns Him in, turns traitor to the Son of Man— better never to have been born than do this!"

Then Judas, already turned traitor, said, "It isn't me, is it, Rabbi?"

Jesus said, "Don't play games with Me, Judas."

During the meal, Jesus took and blessed the bread, broke it, and gave it to His disciples: "Take, eat. This is My body." Taking the cup and thanking God, He gave it to them: "Drink this, all of you.This is My blood, God's new covenant poured out for many peoplefor the forgiveness of sins.

"I'll not be drinking wine from this cup again until that new day when I'll drink with you in the kingdom of my Father.

-Matthew 26: 17-30 (The Message translation)

She was dead. She had died in Marius' arms, she had still clung to the delusion that the Bonapartist might love her, there was blood covering her breasts and soaking through her shirt and staining her hands. It was absurd, really, that he had told Marius to rest when he himself was so deeply affected by her death. He had wanted to be the one to carry her away, so that he could have a few minutes to try to somehow say farewell (but would he have found solace, in asking forgiveness of the empty shell that was her body?), but he had found himself sitting by Marius and watching Combeferre carry her body to the side alley where the rest of the bodies were laid out for the morgue.

Enjolras now gave some excuse to the rest of the men that he couldn't remember later and disappeared into the battered café. If he broke down (and he didn't know if he would, but in case it happened), he could not let any of his friends see it. He had to keep a brave front for them, or else everything would be ruined. Moreover, he didn't grieve in public, as Marius had done.

He nodded to Joly and Combeferre, sidestepping the impromptu cots and his wounded friends, giving polite smiles to the women who had been brave enough to help the Cause, and climbed the stairs. In one of the rooms, he saw Grantaire, asleep at a table with a customary bottle of some sort of alcoholic drink in his grasp. Enjolras continued to the familiar room where they had been meeting for years. It was empty, thank goodness.

He sat down, consciously aware that he was oddly calm. Wasn't it supposed to be the opposite, when you were dealing with grief? Shouldn't he be, he didn't know, crying or yelling at Marius or something to that effect? Instead, he was almost numb, his mind unable to tear away from the image of Éponine in Marius' arms, her bloodied hand reaching out to Marius' cheek. Was it disrespectful to her memory, that he wasn't crying?

He could hear someone with heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, and walking to the room. The volunteer, the older man who had killed the double agent Javert, appeared at the doorway. For a few moments, the man stood at the entryway and looked at Enjolras. Enjolras did not meet his eyes.

"Have you come to tell me that the National Guard is back?" said Enjolras finally.

The man shook his head, though Enjolras did not see it. "No. There's no attack going on right now." He took a few steps into the room. "I saw how affected you were by the girl's death, and I wanted to ask how you were."

Enjolras' head snapped up as he met the man's eyes. "My God." He ran a hand through his hair. "Was it really that evident?"

"Grief is hard to conceal, monsieur."

"Well, yes, but…"

The man's brow furrowed. "Did you… feel something for the girl?" he asked delicately.

"I don't know. It's—" Éponine loved Marius, but Marius loves his mysterious beauty, and he, Enjolras, was— had been, he corrected himself (if only she was still alive)— starting to fall for Éponine. "—it's hard to explain, monsieur."

The man nodded but did not respond to this. Then he abruptly offered his hand. "I don't believe we have been properly introduced. I am Fauchelevant."

Enjolras shook the man's hand. "Enjolras."

"A pleasure to meet you, even though I wish it could have been under different circumstances." Fauchelevant paused, as if he wasn't sure how to continue. Then, tentatively, he asked, "Would you be all right with me asking your men to lead them, and you, in prayer? You and the other revolutionaries are doing an admirable job in your efforts here, but it is always best to ask God for guidance, rather than just to rely on yourselves."

"I… of course. Whatever you feel is best."

Fauchelevant's eyes were difficult to read. Was there pity and sadness there? "Thank you, monsieur." He nodded and left the room.

Enjolras left after a few minutes. When he reached the landing and looked down at the café's main room, he saw the rest of his (still-living) friends beginning to gather. Even Grantaire had been roused from his drunken stupor, at least momentarily. He could see Marius outside, still working on the barricade as an attempt to not succumb to grief over Éponine (it wasn't a bad idea, truthfully), and Fauchelevant talking to him, and Marius coming inside. Enjolras went down the stairs and sat by Combeferre.

Did he truly feel that prayer was necessary? He had been raised in the traditional manner by his royalist parents in Marseille, faithfully attending Mass each Sunday throughout his childhood and adolescence. When he had arrived to study in Paris a few years back, he had gone to Mass out of habit, but church and religion slowly fell to the wayside as his studies and the revolution began to occupy all his time. Now, he only went to Mass for the Christmastide and Eastertide services, as any French Catholic would. But did he believe it, still? Yes, he believed all the fundamentals he had been raised on— but he hadn't thought to pray about whether going through with the revolution was a good idea. He was roused from his inner thoughts when Fauchelevant started to speak.

"I know some of you may not be religious," Fauchelevant began, "and I know some of you may scoff when I say this, but I believe that asking God for guidance and wisdom and strength would be the wisest course of action, now that" —so many of you have died, and the rest will be killed soon— "the situation is… delicate. If any of you are not comfortable with this, then you are not obligated to stay."

To their credit, none of his friends left. Fauchelevant only nodded. "Very well then. Let's begin." The students and the volunteering women bowed their heads, and Fauchelevant began.

"Dear Lord… first of all, thank You for this group of commendable men and women. You have brought together an assembly of brave souls who are willing to risk death to bring good fortune back to their country, and only You know how this will end. If it is Your will, then may their efforts succeed, and may as few as possible be injured or killed. If it is not Your will… then again, please let as many as possible survive unharmed. If not, then please let their efforts be remembered. But You know what it best for us, even when we cannot see it. Let Your will be done here, Lord. In Your Son's holy name, amen."

It was unlike any prayer Enjolras had ever heard, in his entire life. It was not "Lord Jesus, may everything I do begin with You, continue with Your help, and be done under Your guidance. May my sharing in the Mass free me from my sins". It was honest, it was heartfelt, and Fauchelevant clearly meant what he said.

The main thing about it was one, Fauchelevant had not prayed to Saint Michael the Archangel or Saint George: he had appealed directly to the Father; and two, it was almost as if Fauchelevant was just… asking God. There was no flowery words, no pre-existing test that he had recited from memory. It was sincere and personal.

So Enjolras, unsure if he was doing it correctly, silently added his piece.

God… I would like to ask… forgiveness. I should have said something— anything— to Éponine, to ease her pain over Marius, but I was a coward and she was killed before I could act. So… even though this sounds incredibly foolish, please let her know that… I am sorry. And God… please, let my friends survive this. I don't care about myself, because living with guilt over Éponine does not sound appealing in the least, but my friends have the rest of their lives to live. They're young, they're scared of dying, and I brought them into this without truly preparing them for what would happen. And I'm going to kill them all, just because of my pride. Please, let them survive. …Amen.

He didn't feel the metaphorical weight lifting off his shoulders, but then again, he hadn't expected to.

"M. Enjolras?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up, seeing Fauchelevant looking at him, concerned. Then he realized two things. First, he had been clenching his folded hands together so tightly the skin was white. And second, one single, solitary tear had fallen from his eye. None followed, and he did not feel the urge to cry again.

He had finally— properly— grieved over Éponine.

He got up, nodded to Fauchelevant to somehow convey his thanks, and went outside, because his friends needed to see him be strong if they were to go on. The street was quiet. The only sound was the brief clack as a woman from an upstairs window in one of the buildings shut her shutters.

The shutters being pulled closed… It seemed like a sign.

They were doomed to die here. No one had a chance of surviving, because they were the only barricade left, and the people had not come.

And he— the great Apollo, the man of fire and ice, the one who believed in the Glorious Cause the most fervently of all of them— had led them here, to be abandoned, and to be massacred.

God, please…

But their destinies, it seemed, had already been decided.

You know the rest of the story.

I want to get this out there: I am a Christian, and a Protestant, specifically. I am not saying Catholicism is wrong or bad; I happen to think Catholicism is absolutely beautiful. But please do not leave a harsh review if you have a different viewpoint.