A/N: Whilst going through my documents on my laptop, I stumbled across this little piece which I believe I wrote when I first discovered Les Miserables and have only now decided that it should be granted a place on fanfiction! This was written ages ago, before I really got into fanfiction, so if any characterisations are off; please feel free to tell me!
Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's masterpiece into something cohesive! Please don't sue me!
Much love and enjoy x
On my own
The girl walks slowly through the rain soaked streets of Paris. Each step is laboured with an eternity of sadness as she holds the flickering gaze of her blurred reflection dancing in and out of the artificial lights of the street lamps reflected in the puddles. Her face is pale and smudged with a sorry makeup of smuts and dirt; her week old mascara running in rivers of ink down her hollow cheeks; mingled with the salty lakes of shed tears that she does not want to brush away. Each scalding drop of sadness is a tribute, an atonement for the one she loved; the one she lost to the pale, blue eyed angel whose blurred profile floats in and out of her line of vision, obscured by the hazy shine of standing water, the gaze dark and accusatory; the lips full and red. Moist.
Hands clutching at thin cotton as she tries to draw him forcefully towards her, as if she knows his feelings for another and by doing this is trying to making sure that the illusion of whatever they were or ever could have been is completely and utterly shattered when his dark eyes fall into the inky depths of her pupils… She imagines his agile, freckled hands caressing the pale, heart shaped face, the cleft chin falling into cupped hands, the palms worn rough from years of ink pens and coarse leather satchels. Perfect symmetry. Hatred rises in her parched throat like vomit; white hot and scalding as she imagines the adoration etched in each strand of those inky blue eyes as he holds her gaze; lips parted in confusion, their movements slow and unsure at first as they drink each other up; the pale faced angel…
A cold, northerly wind whips under her thin coat and clutches her into an icy embrace; her skin prickling as it whispers through her hair. Moisture soaks through the tattered soles of her boots; now mere ribbons of tough leather that she had to cut away in order to barter for bread. She knows that she should have stolen food instead, retreated back to the darker shadows of her childhood, but she hadn't. That was behind her now, all of it; or so she thought, she hoped.
Unheeded thoughts of those candlelit years with kid slippers and velvet dresses float through her numbing brain as a dark carriage rumbles past; the passengers' profiles merely silhouettes in the steadily growing darkness. Candles. Velvet dresses. Her mother rearranging the horrible blonde wig with its fake ringlets and ribbons for the umpteenth time, her face a mask of white lead and smeared rouge, her eyes wide behind the false lashes and mascara, making her seven year old daughter compare her silently to a slightly demented clown as she sat on the eiderdown coverlet, swinging her stubby legs stuffed into itchy white tights, drinking in the scent of cinnamon and jasmine wafting dreamily from a green glass bottle with a gold stopper. She had worn a red velvet dress with a squirrel trim collar she remembers; twirling round her parents bedroom in a red velvet dress with rubies encrusting the hem, spinning with Azelma dressed in midnight blue studded with tiny diamonds that shone like stars as little Cosette scurried about the kitchen in drab brown sacking; her cheeks pale and hollow with lack of food, her eyes darting this way and that as she clutched at the broom; terrified that she would be beaten if she dared to even think about letting go. How long ago that all seemed! Another world, another her…
It hurts to remember what happened next. She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling the burning pricks of pain as the mascara mixes with the salty fire of her unshed tears and welcomes it. Welcomes the fact that something is real in this strange, new reality that she has found herself thrown into. She tries to think about Marius, but thoughts about Marius are excruciatingly painful, as if someone has plunged a knife between her ribcage and is twisting it hard, revelling in the weeping blood of her punctured heart. She thinks of Gavroche instead and where he is now, the pint-sized revolutionary, leader of the slum people and associate with Les Amis de l'ABC who ran away from the Inn at the age of four and has not been seen since.
He would be twelve now, she thinks sadly as she conjures up his likeness in her minds eye; those sharp brown eyes with a twinkle of mischief, quick hands always itching to delve into some unsuspecting gentleman's pocket as quick as you please and draw up such twinkling treasures…. She smiles despite herself. Gavroche is fine. He always is, always landing feet first, unlike her. Her eyes wander hopelessly up to the night sky; a velvet blanket studded with silver stars thrown high into the heavens. Dark indigo clouds drift dreamily as the wind whistles and chases itself through the deserted streets and she shivers, pulling her thin coat tighter around herself, wanting to hide in the raggedy fabric and be lost forever. But she can't. The icy rain trickles down the back of her neck; steely drops freezing the exposed skin. A dark silhouette of a carriage rumbles past, the horses snorting and stamping in the arctic air, steam billowing in pillars of moisture in the still, cold air. A man raises his hat to her, or at least she thinks he does, she can't be sure in this darkness. She turns on impulse and gazes after the carriage, thinking of mothballs and the musty perfume of antique velvet; luscious purples, blood reds, deep midnight blues, shimmering emerald greens…
She sighs and moves on, thinking about Cosette and the man who came to take her away on a night very like tonight. 10 years ago today. She sighs and remembers. The lamps were lit and her parents were going out for a ball. She was not invited though but had been tucked up in a soft bed with a swansdown coverlet and a flickering candle that cast leaping shadows on the walls. She had been woken, she remembers now by the clattering of horse's hooves on the gravel, the jangle of harness, the flickering light of an oil lamp bobbing on a hook through the still night air. Footsteps. Urgent voices. Some she knew, like her parents and Cosette's timid mouse like squeak, which nobody really heard at all, and others she didn't. A foghorn voice that shattered the silence that made her and Azelma sit up in bed, two floors above their heads; wide-awake and frightened. 'Where is the child Cosette?' They had wanted Cosette. Why? The little raggedy girl with dirty blonde hair that hung like rat tails around a pale, thin face with huge blue-grey eyes highlighted with blue-black smudges of sooty tiredness. Sitting there in the flickering darkness, her pitifully ignorant eight-year-old brain had tried to work it out, but failed. Who would want Cosette? It had all been so confusing and so much easier to snuggle down in her soft bed and watch the familiar flickering light of the candle in order to forget. How she wishes she could do that now!
But she can't. Instead she is painfully aware of the icy trickles of rain water soaking her skin, smothering her in an icy embrace, of the weight of her wet clothes, wet hair… The moisture clings to her like a second skin, smothering her, she can't breathe, can't think… Tentatively, she tries to take another step, forcing herself to keep walking, feeling the weight of the cheap paper envelope in the pocket of her tattered jacket. She hasn't really felt it until now, but the weight presses down on her now, forcing her into the rain soaked pavement, a sluggish river of mud, blood and tears. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees the flickering lights of the whorehouse and shudders. A drunken shadow lurches past her, his arms waving madly; 'alright darlin'?'
Shadows flicker across her path; ragged butterflies in tattered brightly coloured costume, their makeup smudged with the rain and the heat of the house. White faces. Dark eyes. Red lips. She wants to scream. They saunter past her, arms entwined with shadowy gentlemen; the lyrics of their song filtering faintly on the cold, stagnant air. She wants to disappear. Animalistic cries and groans echo through the open door; filling the air with the heady, sickly sweet scent of sex. Shouts, the clash of glass on wood, fists in faces, knucklebones… Memories… A frothy river of wine running like blood across the tables, seeping through cheap wood…The moon slips behind a violet cloud; a sliver of silver and she is alone. Alone in the darkness as the rain still falls, oblivious to her plight; a poor beggar thief with no where to go, like so many on this icy June night, left alone to fend for themselves against the prowlers who slunk through Paris's slumbering streets, their crimes shrouded by an invisibility cloak of deep, indigo brilliance.
A thick ham like hand tries to work its way around her shivering shoulders, but she shrugs it off and keeps walking. She needs to find Marius. Needs to find reality, normality. But this is normality, or hers at least. She has to find him. Take him to Cosette. Then…what then? She doesn't know. She imagines him, the tall thin student with the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his roman nose, the wide, dark blue eyes the colour of ink, the calloused hands holding her, clutching at her, whispering sweet nothings into her ear as she tries to pour out her problems like any other girl but finds that she can't. Why would he want to know about her? A poor, ragged girl with dark eyes and clothes two sizes too small, chaffing her at her every step. A girl with a stolen cap plucked off the head of an unsuspecting innocent, she doesn't know how long ago. A girl with no family, no home, no money…She feels disgusted with herself. Of course he would want Cossette. Who wouldn't? She is frozen, staring blindly at the shadows of houses, the windows blank like the dead, staring eyes of a corpse.
Oh Marius! His name fights through her icy lips, that sweet sound tumbling over the edge and crashing into the crushing oblivion of nothingness. She thinks of Les Amis de l'ABC and Enjolras; blazingly beautiful Enjolras, his almond shaped eyes set deep within a perfectly chiselled face reflected in the guttering light of the candle stubs, the liquid pupils of glacial intensity brimming with an infectious fiery passion as he stood astride the tables on the only meeting she went to, slipping like a shadow through a half open door, watching him with sleep filled eyes as he stood with all the presence of a God, clutching a half full bottle of cheap red wine the colour of blood in a trembling hand as he expressed his vision for the people of France, dark eyes gleaming in the flickering lights of the candles as Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel clapped and cheered, whilst Grantaire swayed unsteadily, slurring out an operatic aria which he only knew half the words to as the others roared their approval and thumped the tables as the wine slopped and splashed, seeping like blood through the wood, unheeded by anyone but her.
But he wasn't a God. She knew that. Did they? He was just like them, shrouding his fears and insecurities beneath a glittering persona of masculine bravado. Had Marius been there? She can't remember. Marius silently sitting in the corner, watching the godlike Enjolras with such deep admiration that it had made her feel sick; the fiery vomit rising steadily up her throat that she had had to slip out again and vomit, her stomach heaving, clenching, contracting, the stink of vomit mixed with the salty sadness of tears as she realised that this was where he really belonged. At the Café Musain with these rich, young, idealistic men fresh out of the clutches of their fathers and beginning their journey through university, their whole lives ahead of them, lives that would be cut cruelly short with the stab of a bayonet or the cackle of rifle fire. Not with her, she knew that much now. Had known that much since her veil of innocence had been cruelly stripped away by the fluttering golden moth that was Cosette and replaced by the cold, crushing darkness of her Fathers' work and the cruel, claustrophobic embrace of Paris' underbelly that held gamins such as herself in a tight, perverted embrace.
She keeps walking. She wants to walk herself to death, so that she doesn't have to deliver Cosette's letter to him, doesn't have to face him. But she must. She turns a corner and is in yet another dark, winding alley way; home to beggars and thieves; the very crumbs of humanity. Cats yowl and spit on the brick walls; backs arched, scrawny bodies quivering with anticipation. A pile of grubby blankets stirs sleepily and a knurled hand reaches blindly for her, groping, grasping; fingers snatching at thin air. She keeps walking, staring straight ahead. Usually she would help that poor devil as a fellow gamine left alone on the wayside by the corrupt greed of the Bourgeois, but today… The moon slips silently behind a cloud and the night is everlasting. She shivers and pulls the tattered remains of her coat tighter around her shoulders. Her stomach growls and she knows she must find food. Perhaps that old beggar wouldn't mind, wouldn't see…
Quick fingers, a light touch, darting back into the shadows at any sign of movement, who knows what she could recover? She turns back to where the shivering lump of blankets still lies and takes a few faltering steps towards it, her stomach complaining almost audibly as she creeps silently towards the lump. It stirs, a rumbling snore shattering the silence and making her whole body tense in fright as her eyes dart around the deserted space, terrified. If Javert or any one of his National Guard cronies finds her, the game would be up. Up for her, Montparnasse, Azelma, her parents, Gavroche, the many-threaded networks of thieves and crooks that do business with her father and their dark lairs hidden away in the streets of Paris.
She mustn't be seen, mustn't be caught. That everlasting mantra of her childhood drummed into her by her Father has he gripped her chin painfully between two thick fingers, silently tracing the bones in her face as she desperately tried not to vomit from the stink of fumes that coated him like a second skin.
She slips in the shadowy safety and waits, hardly daring to breathe, her heart pumping painfully between her ribs as she scans the deserted alleyway. On the other wall, a stray cat yowls a screeching lullaby to the flickering moon as the shadowy lump silently shifts sides and she breathes again. Her legs, which momentarily felt as if they had turned to stone, melt into feeling again and she shakily extracts herself from the safety of the alley wall and makes her way towards the lump and drops to her knees. Feverish fingers work silently in the shadowy night as she hunts, saliva erupting like lava in the back of her parched mouth. Numb fingers hit the hard rock of stale bread and she pounces like a cat onto an unsuspecting mouse and grabs it with nerveless digits. Stumbling blindly away from the grunting snores, she cradles the lump of bread and sighs; revelling in its cold weight, the very fact that it was there, that she is holding it. Without thinking, she finds herself on the shadowy bridge crossing the blue- black stretch of water that cuts through the city like a scar across skin.
Unconsciously, she finds her hand gripping the letter and she has to fight down the impulse to throw it into the black water and be rid of it forever. But she can't. She has to find Marius, explain to him…explain what? Everything. Her head aches with all this thinking. She needs to get to his lodgings, but whether he'll even be there, she doesn't know. Would he be at the Musain? Possibly. She sighs and turns back the way she has come, her heart sinking slightly at the prospect at having to trace her footsteps back to the Café. 'Come on Éponine, pull yourself together!'Her voice echoes strangely over the silent water, startling her into silence. She hadn't meant to speak out loud.
Tentatively, she turns, but there is no one. The flickering lights of a city asleep are her only companions now. She has to find Marius. Her hand grips the lump of stale bread and crumbles a piece between her slowly numbing fingers, which she slowly places to her quivering lips, relishing in the rough texture. Somehow she finds saliva to swallow and feels the crumbles slipping down her aching throat. Marius. She turns and stumbles away like the thief she was, like the thief she will always be. She stole his heart and in turn, had it stolen from her.
The pale faced angel, whom it hurts to name even to herself. Marius. Enjolras. Her parents. Javert. Gavroche. The young, idealistic students who would rally to Liberty's scarlet standard without a second thought of the price they might pay with their final, scarlet sacrifice seeping through the dusty cobblestones of Rue St Denis… A sacrifice that would be payed for them by the thrust of a bayonet to the back, or the chattering chorus of the muskets...
She stumbles along the bridge and finds the steps leading down to the rain washed pavement, shining like the sliver in a ladies broach. Lights dance before her shattered eyes and she keeps walking, forcing herself to keep moving. It is cold. So cold. Even the crumbles from the lump of bread, lying in her pocket next to the letter have not really fed her. Perhaps Monsieur Marius…?
She doesn't know how long she wanders for, lost in the unknown maze of uptown Paris; searching. Drunken singing filters through half open windows and she listens half-heartedly for Marius's sweet tenor voice but does not hear it. Surely… She shivers and stops; gazing out at the slumbering city, blinking back sudden, unwelcome tears. How can she be so stupid! Of course she will never find him tonight, not if she keeps searching until she was sleep walking. But she has to find him! Desperately, she turns back to the narrow street and starts. A tall shadow is moving silently towards her, tall and poised with a slight slurry spring in their step. Fear laps at her throat and she stuffs the letter deeper into the depths of her pocket. They can't see it, whoever they are. The shadow is drawing closer now and she feels the icy chill of sweat erupting over her trembling palms. It is drawing closer and she has nowhere to hide, nowhere to run to. She can almost taste her fear as it erupts in the back of her mouth, drowning her in its sickly scent. She is trapped and she doesn't like it. Not one bit.
'Mademoiselle?' That voice. Her heart begins to beat ridiculously fast and her breathing quickens as the profile draws closer; a slinking shadow slipping silently towards her. A flicker of recognition sparks within her brain. Even with the slurred, drunken undertone, she knows that voice. Not well, but well enough to know whose it is and why they are here.
'Courfeyrac?' The name comes out in a rush and her knees grow suddenly faint. She staggers, almost collapses into his hard, dependable chest as he catches her by the elbow and pulls her upward; one smooth, yet calloused hand cupping her quivering chin, so better to look at her. The part of his slightly out of focus eyes which is looking at her is alive with a leering, bestial malice; his breathe stinking of wine, smoke and the heady tang of sweet sex. She shudders inwardly and allows herself to inhale a shaky breath as she rises her gaze to the hazel coloured eyes, flecked with gold like that of a dying sunset, alive with concern dancing in and out of the darkness.
'Éponine? What…what are you doing here?' She is surprised that he even knows her name, little thieving, love sick whelp that she is. She shakes her head and fumbles for the letter; knowing that she will have to explain, if not all of it, then just a little bit because she has to find Marius and if someone lurking in the shadows tells her father that she's been out alone with nothing to show for it… Roughly she thrusts the cheap paper envelope into his hands and waits. She hears the rustle of the paper as he turns it over, his confusion evident even in this darkness.
'What's this?' His voice is suddenly full of questions rising with the confusion as he folds out the rain soaked, flattened wood pulp. She shakes her head slowly, she can't bring herself to speak, not yet. He waits, a silent statue as she tries to find the words that seem to be stuck in her throat, lodged behind a growing barricade of fearful panic. Finally she chokes them out, the sounds feeling hollow against her barren mouth as they fall off a tongue suddenly dry with fear.
'Monsieur Marius…Cosette…I…. the letter…Gavroche…. I…you….'She stumbles to a stop and looks up at him, wanting more than ever to get out of here. He looks at her in concern, leading her over to a flickering street lamp in order to see her more closely. She gazes up at him, his face worn and pale in the artificial light. His eyes are blurred and slightly out of focus from alcohol and she notices that they are shining with something she can't quite place. The silence between them billows, echoing through the silent city. From somewhere she hears the beginning of a drunken brawl, but it is beyond her territory of Saint Michel so she doesn't worry. The moon slips out from behind a cloud. She can feel the heat of Courfeyrac's gaze on her face, the dark eyes piercing her soul. The distant rumble of carriage wheels on the street below. Another yowling lullaby answered by distant dogs. The sky slowly fading from inky black to midnight blue. She has to tell him. But it is Courfeyrac who speaks first, before she can even decide on what to say.
'Marius is with Cosette.' She looks up at that, seeing the conflicting emotions play across his handsome face. 'He…she is going away. He wanted one last night before…' He stumbles painfully to a stop, swallows and tries again but can't. He doesn't need to though, because she knows. Everyone who is anyone in the San Marcel network of thieves and crooks knows what tomorrow will bring, what these idealistic young men want to do. They just don't know how it is going to end.
'The barricade', she whispers finally, simply, daring to look up. He nods and she sees his grip tighten on the cheap paper envelope. She sees the hand holding the letter tremble slightly as her words sink in, but as soon as the feeling of fear registers, it is gone; replaced by icy calmness; as she knew it would. 'I…', She doesn't know what to say, whether to comfort him, a young idealistic man about to face death for the first and last time or leave him to understand. Understand something that she has had to face up to every day since she ran away from the Inn and before that, when her parents debts had begun to grow and she had had to steal for food; unable to breathe, unable to take her parents twisted pleasures any longer.
A short, sharp shot shatters the silence of the night and she stiffens, trying desperately to stifle the scream that is fighting through her throat. 'Marius…' His name is merely a sound in her throat as she closes her eyes, desperately trying to block out the unheeded images of a dead and dying Marius flying like a swarm of wasps through her temporarily blank brain as she tries to master herself, biting back tears, feeling the warm, metallic tang of blood on her cold, chapped lips.
Shockingly scarlet blood seeping steadily through a crisp, white shirt…Blue eyes widening in shock… The cold, everlasting darkness of a gun barrel… Silent screams…Cosette, a silver waterfall of tears coursing unheeded down her beautiful face as she rushes to him as he falls seemingly endlessly, crashing, dying in darkness… Oh Cosette, I'm so sorry, I know you love him… I love him… He can't die! He mustn't die! She has to find him…Find him before it is too late… Give him the letter…If Javert finds him… Finds Valjean, a man she hardly knows but somehow she knows… Then…Then…Oh God… Please…don't let him die… Keep him safe…Please…
'Is with Cosette', she is flung back into reality, reeling slightly from the impact of Courfeyrac's calmness in comparison to the blood soaked terror of her own thoughts. The calmness is unnerving, mixed with something that in her current state of utter agitation, she can't quite place. Is he thinking the same thoughts she is, but covering them up with that typical façade of masculine bravado? She doesn't know.
Somehow she finds the strength to nod but still doesn't believe him. How can he be so calm? She wants to shake him, to scream, to tell him in no uncertain terms that his death is intimate as well as that of her lover and so many others…
Bahorel, Bossuet, Combeferre, Joly, Jean Prouvaire the baby of Les Amis- a child of eighteen, Feuilly whose love of history and Poland was well known throughout the district, Grantaire with his constant companion in a green glass gin bottle swinging haphazardly through the cold March air as he stumbles home to his student room. Grantaire with his wide, emerald eyes filled with an unspoken, passionate devotion towards his golden Phoenix prince… Oh God…So many unsuspecting innocents… But they weren't innocents, they know what they are doing, don't they? She doesn't want to think about it. Please, please, let him be safe, let him stay with Cosette where…
But she knows he won't. Suddenly she wants to run to the Rue Plumet where she knows he will be or the Jardins de Luxembourg and throw herself at him, beg him not to go. He has his whole life to lead and she… She can feel Courfeyrac's dark gaze on her face, but she can't look at him. Can't tell him what she is really thinking or feeling. Why was it all so hard? Why did Fate have to be so brutally unfair? The gaze cuts through her wall of pained grief, confusion, lovesick loss like a knife through bread and suddenly she can't think apart from the single fact that she needs to get out of here. She needs to get away and the rain has stopped, coating everything in a fine gown of silver brilliance.
'Éponine…' She feels the calloused, capable hands on her shoulders, drawing her trembling body close, shrouding her in a coat of sweat, sweet sex and drink as his cold mouth works its way down her shivering neck. She can feel the bite of his teeth on tender skin and shies, wanting him to stop. She hasn't got time for this. Not now. Cold hands work their way expertly up her sodden trousers, caressing the soaked fabric of her coat, clutching at her stick thin body as if it were a piece of driftwood amid a storm topped sea. She shudders and twists but he grabs harder and she can feel his hair on her face. She can't do this…
'Courfeyrac…Please…Not now…', Her pleas fall on deaf ears as he murmurs nonsensically in her ear, forcing her head back against his shoulder. She knows why he's doing this and what he wants to do if he gets half the chance and she doesn't like it. If only… Forgive me Marius… She is drowning in his sickly sweet scent, and is completely helpless. Helpless like the child she once was, wavering unsteadily at the threshold of her parents dark, twisted lair, completely blind to the dangers lurking in the many threaded lair of lies, blood, deceit, sex, knives and drink…endless drink…Running like blood through cheap wood… She closes her eyes and shudders as she feels Courfeyrac's hard lips on the trembling skin of her cheek; slowly sucking every last strand of composure out of her. She has to get away. Now. She struggles, desperately trying to evade his clutching grasp…
She has to get to Marius. She can't stay here. There is no time… She can feel his hands caressing her cap, fumbling with her long, black hair that hangs like wet rat tails down her back, the long, thin fingers curling, clutching… She pulls away fiercely but he simply grabs harder, yanking her back; short, sharp stabs of pain erupting in her soaked scalp as she is forced into his chest; forced to listen to his grunting groans as he works his shivering body into hers.
'Monsieur!' Her voice has somehow gained strength in the passing minutes that have felt like hours to her, trapped in his vice like grip. He, however, ignores it and grabs her again, forcing her into his trembling body; his head nestled into her soaking hair, murmuring indistinct words that she can only just make out. 'Not yet 'Poinine…Please…Not yet…' He sounds like a child, she thinks sarcastically in the steadily growing silence; a lost, frightened child who does not know which way to go next and is clinging to her for support.
She shudders as his hands clutch convulsively at her budding breasts, the wet fabric straining over their jutting, boy like shapes in the gloom as she realises; too late what he wants to do with her if he gets half the chance. Her brain, which has been blankly numb in the passing minutes goes into manic overdrive, two thoughts tumbling through her head with such speed that she can hardly make sense of them. The one thing she does know is that she has to get away. Now! Somehow, she manages to wriggle one of her clammy, sweat soaked hands out of his clutching grip and raises it; ready to slap him, hit him; anything to get away from this drunken monster of a man.
For a fraction of a second, she feels his groping hands relax and takes her chance. The blow lands on the side of his face; startling him into submission as his hands fly off, but where they go to next, she doesn't know. She is already running; sprinting down the rain soaked streets of Paris, already bathed in the soft pink-grey light of early dawn. She feels dirty, contaminated; his sickly scent clinging to her like a tight fitting cloak; impossible to throw off. He is everywhere, his face, his hands, his eyes, silently pleading with her, forcing her into a tight, constricting embrace; her hair, her face, her skin prickling with disgust, her clothes. In her desperate haste to escape him, her foot catches on an unseen object and she stumbles, is forced to stop; sucking in the pain, blinking back the sudden, unwelcome tears that crowd round her shattered eyelids. In desperation, she sinks to her knees, nursing the muffled pain that is shooting up her ankle and closes her eyes; trying to forget what has just happened; relishing in the pricks of pain caused by the river of salty mascara running freely down her hollow cheeks.
She tries to think about Marius and where he would be by now, but finds it impossible to picture to picture him anywhere but at the gardens in the Rue Plumet with her... The golden lark…Cosette…Please, please let him be with Cosette, let him stay out of it… It is a vain, desperate hope, but one worth clinging to, clinging to with all her fragile soul. She imagines him standing in the shadows of the wrought iron gates, eyes ablaze with passionate love as she slipped through the trees, a waterfall of golden beauty tumbling down her back; blue eyes sparkling as she drinks him up. Her chest constricts with palpable envy and she chokes back a strangled sob, furious with herself for even imagining that they could have even considered being together. It was a foolish, childish desire and she must forget it, forget it like every other fleeting, passing fantasy that has passed her way since she was forced onto the streets like a beggars brat she hoped she isn't; the beggars brat whose life she refuses to lead.
She stinks of Courfeyrac. His smell still clings to her in a fierce, perverted embrace; colder and tighter even than the chilled early morning air. She huddles deeper into her corner, pulling the threadbare coat tighter around her trembling shoulders, wanting to disappear into its raggedy fabric and be lost forever. Every breath she takes hurts, forced out of her quivering lungs like knives through cloth; each painful contraction of her lungs shaking her like the poppet dolls she used to play with in those far off, candlelit days of childhood. She shudders as she remembers Courfeyrac, the stink of sweat and drink…. The pleading eyes, grabbing hands…Her eyes slip shut and she is lost to the dank darkness of oblivion. The cold has consumed her and she knows nothing of the outside world, feels nothing. Just this dark, painful ice that clings to every cell of her body like a second skin.
Dark shadows float unheeded past her flickering eyelids as she tries to stay awake, knowing all the while that it is a futile hope, that it is so much easier to accept the darkness and slip away unseen. The darkness playing at the corners of her blank brain is like some huge, magnetic force, dragging her deeper and deeper into the abyss. From somewhere, she hears the thunderous roar of blood coursing through her body, growing steadily weaker, flickering, failing and knows numbly that she does not have much more time left in this cold dark world of poverty and lovesick loss. Death waits, a devil leaning lazily on a fiery trident; dark eyes gazing malevolently as her shivering shade creeps ever closer to a dark door kept slightly ajar… Unknown hands grip her, pull her limp, useless body painfully this way and that, but she is so tired and so cold that she can't resist.
Unrecognizable voices wash over her; words spilling over her numb body, but she can't make them out; they simply merge into one large cauldron of unwelcome noise pressing down on her freezing brain. 'Let me be', she wants to tell them, if only she could find the strength. 'Let me die, I want to die, let me be'. But they don't. She imagines each voice as being his voice, Marius's voice and smiles inwardly. His inky blue eyes filled with tender, passionate desire… It is a beautiful, evanescent fantasy for her slowly crumbling mind and she clings to it, relishing in the fleeting feeling of pure delight that it brings her. Words dance on her parched, cracked lips; dance and then die, crashing into nothingness.
Large, capable hands scoop her up, nimble fingers working their way around her frozen body. It is cold. So cold. Her skin screams unheard cries of agony as her saturated clothes are slowly peeled off her shivering, emaciated frame a layer at a time. She feels feverish, her skin burning hot one minute and then as cold as ice the next. In her dumb, dark state she supposes drily that her mind is playing tricks on her again; like it has done for so many years; like it is doing now, making her think that it is Marius helping her and not some petty thief robbing her blind. She feels the bite of metal being pressed to parched lips, feels the fiery heat of some strange substance being forced down her protesting throat. Hands caress her head, tipping it back, forcing her to swallow. She can't. Her throat feels as if it has got a boulder trapped inside it, blocking everything.
Unknown voices swarm around her and she is lost, trapped within the freezing cold. She feels her limp body being lifted gently and wrapped into something warm, but what she doesn't know. More voices, softer this time and she sinks deeper into the comforting black oblivion playing at the corners of her brain; relishing in them. She feels large calloused hands caressing her face, chaffing her frozen hands, willingly her to wake up. She doesn't want to wake up, doesn't want to have to face the harsh reality of the outside world. She wants to stay in this warm, comforting blackness, bolstered by thoughts of Marius, the fleeting feeling that if he is here with her, then he will be safe; that he will not rush off to the blood splattered darkness of his impending death. Her head lolls painfully; the weight cricking her neck as it nestles into the comforting weight of an unknown arm.
The voices wash over her, but they mean nothing now. She is wandering through the grey blankness of nothingness, lost and yet not afraid. Not yet. The voices chase after her, growing fainter with every step she take. At least she thinks they are voices. They could just be one voice for all she knows or cares. Why don't they leave her alone? Leave her alone to die in peace in the shadowy arms of the man she loves, of the man she lost long ago… But they don't. She supposes that she should've known better than to think that they would. They hound her, snapping at her heels as she sprints through the blackness; her bare feet catching on the rain soaked pavement making her trip, stumble, fall into nothingness… Cold, caught breath smelling of inky and wet leather on her face… A fiery waterfall of salty tears splashing on an ice-cold face as a name is whispered over and over again, choked out between strangled sobs.
'Éponine…Éponine... Wake up…It's me…please… 'Poinine… please try…' In the dark crevices of her dying brain, a spark of recognition flares. She knows that voice… Somewhere… But why? She scrabbles for the tantalizing silver thread of thought and pulls at it, watching it unravel before her dying eyes, unravel and then fray; the split ends taunting her. It is over. Furious with herself she sinks back into the blackness, never to be thought of again.
Voices. Something cold and wet being applied to her face. Sweat. Tears. Strong arms cradling her limp, useless body; refusing to let go. More hands. More voices. They are pressing down on her, forcing her back into the blank darkness that she has fought for so long. She is so tired. She doesn't want to fight any more. Doesn't want to fight the fact that he will soon be dead if she doesn't reach him soon and yet time runs on unheeded; slipping like water through cupped hands. She feels something thin and warm being pulled across her shivering body and a cold something caressing her face. Salty tears splash onto her face as she feels pressure on her hands; fingers slowly massaging the fire of life that she had thought she'd lost back into them. 'Come on 'Poinine, please?' The voice is stronger now, cutting steadily through the thick blanket of grey blankness that has engulfed her. Who would do this for her? She wonders dully in the steadily lightening darkness as her body is pulled slowly towards the blinding whiteness of life. Voices, endless voices. She can just about distinguish words now, but they still make no sense. The words run into each other like wet ink, blurring their edges; a confusion of excited sounds… Cold fingers entwine themselves into her frozen hands and somehow she finds the pressure to squeeze back; a faint feather of pressure, like the brush of a butterfly's wing against sun kissed skin in summer.
'M'seur?' Her voice feels harsh and cold, the word scraping painfully against the tender skin of her mouth. Her tongue feels hot and heavy as she tries to speak again but is forced to stop when the bite of metal is pressed against her cold lips. Ice - cold water gushes gratefully down her burning throat and she sighs, suddenly engulfed by a crushing sense of exhaustion. She wants to sleep. Sleep and never wake up… But she can't. Not now. 'M'seur…what?' The words are clipped and broken by the ice -cold pain and exhaustion that is lapping at the corners of her brain; threatening to overwhelm her. She tries to open her eyes, both of which feel as if they are being forced closed by weights. She has to see him. Make sure that what she hopes is real, is really real and that he is here, safe, and not at the barricade; staring down the dark, dank hole of a gun. Staring into death. She shudders...Please let him be here! Wherever here is, let this be real! She tries again to open her eyes, the very action sapping every particle of strength out of her feeble body. Slowly…She feels pressure on her hands that feel like blocks of ice as a finger traces the lines of her face, her mask.
'Hush-a-by Éponine', the soft voice; now a mere choking sob caresses her aching head as she feels the cold brush of icy lips on hers; a flickering flame of a passion that is really reserved for another... 'Hush-a-by little one', she feels her body being lifted gently upwards, floating in nothingness as she tries desperately to make sense of the situation.
'M'seur Marius?' The words cut into each other, her tongue feeling hot and heavy in her mouth; a useless, dormant python slowly stirring itself into life as she blinks; feeling the steady beat of his heart against the painful juts of her backbone. Voices begin to wash over her, as she feels more icy water being forced down her throat, making her splutter and slowly try to open her eyes as she is gradually lowered back to the soft nothingness of where she was before.
Faces flicker in and out of her blurred vision; faces she vaguely recognizes, but can't quite place. She can't find him. White hot, pained panic grips her as her eyes travel over the pale, handsome and utterly unrecognizable faces. Where is he? Who are these strange boys crowded around her? Where is she? She doesn't know and the thought terrifies her. Frightens her more than being cornered in a dark street by a drunken, dark haired youth with amber coloured eyes flashing like the last rays of a dying sunset and his last kiss on his mind. Fear. It leaps at her, licking the sides of her brain; making the sickly sweet scent of sweat erupt on her trembling palms, drowning her in its sweet embrace.
Hands clutch at her jutting ribs, a soft, blissfully brief kiss placed on the nape of her neck; the tendons strained to breaking point. 'Hush, my little one', his voice. Her eyes slip shut as she pictures him holding her; his large, capable hands stained and calloused from years of ink pens and rough leather satchels embracing her feebly thin body, concealing her, protecting her… Oh how she wishes she could bury into that soft sanctuary and be lost from the harsh, cold reality of the world forever! From somewhere she hears his name; a whispered question, the soft kiss of the M, the long, seemingly endless AR, the tongue rolling up for the short, blunt IU and the final, sensual S that seems to go on seemingly endlessly. She doesn't hear his reply but buries her aching head into the comforting security of his chest, relishing in the soft, thudding iambs of his heart against her cheek. She feels a hand travelling slowly up her neck and shivers slightly as his fingers lightly caress her skin in a desperate reassurance that she is still with him. They clutch at her limp, wet hair, entwining themselves into the inky rat tails hanging loosely down her back, carding themselves through a waterfall of inky ebony. She smiles softly, feeling the security of his arms locked around her heart and knows that for now at least, she is safe.
Fin
A/N: I am aware that Courfeyrac may seem a little OOC here; but at the time I wrote this I was incredibly naive about the characterisations of Les Amis; having not yet read the book or seen the film; so bear with my quite un-Courfeyrac characterisation! Feel free to read and review and as ever, comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x