Chapter One: Azelma

Four years ago

The mist settled over the roads like a lose-fitting jacket. The Alps jutted over the fuzzy haze, harsh and rocky in comparison to the pointy evergreens that dotted the valley. It was a regular morning—nothing different, nothing even remotely indicative of inevitable horror.

Eponine crept from her warm covers, surrupticiously dressed in sexy pajamas (lifted from the town department store, of course) under her bath robe. The voices of her mother and sister rang through the empty, cavernous house as they prepared for their day. Six forty-five in the morning.

Eponine strolled apathetically past the dusty family portraits and her sister's decorated bedroom door. The landing looked down into the kitchen if you could hold still long enough. She had a lot of practice—and Madame Thernardier seemed particularly distracted in the past few weeks.

"I don't want to go," Azelma complained. She was bundled up the way she had to be before Madame let her leave the house. Her jean jacket was lined with flannel, her scarf tightly wound around her neck, and her tights were so thick that there wasn't a hint of skin to be seen between her boots and her skirt.

"Well, your father and I already paid for your bus ticket and your meals, and we don't get a refund," Madame said, tucking Azelma's inky hair into her scarf.

The sixteen-year-old shook free of her mother's grasp. "Eponine doesn't have to go. Why should I?"

"Your sister is sick, Azelma."

Guilt colored the inside of Eponine's mouth. She thought of the storming night before. As the power flickered on and off throughout the town, she cleverly rubbed the thermometer against the palm of her hand until she got it to a sufficient degree so that she could skip out on the school field trip.

"You know what? I think I might be getting a fever."

A branch crashed against the roof, scraping the tiles as it fell. Eponine clung to the railing and scrunched her eyes at the screeching noise.

"Nice try. I took your temperature this morning and you are as cool as a cucumber."

Eponine rolled her eyes at Azelma's pathetic attempt. She thought her sister would have learned by now to not try and con their parents right after Eponine did. Alas, poor Azelma was the sweeter and slower of the Thernardier girls. Life was bound to be hard on her once she realized how cold it was outside of mama and papa's arms.

Azelma looked up and met her twin's eyes. A shiver ran down Eponine's spine for reasons she couldn't explain. She wanted to mouth an apology—she wanted to give Azelma something as a consolation present. Instead, Eponine raised her chin haughtily and broke her sister's gaze.

"Fantine!" Madame called. "Where the hell are you?"

Footsteps echoed on the impeccably-polished hardwood floors. Eponine could hear the maid's heavy breaths before she neared the landing. Though it was a godforsaken hour in the morning, the graying blonde wore rubber gloves up to her elbows and dark bags under her eyes.

"I'm right here, Madame," she said, wearily. Fantine glanced down at Eponine's huddled form on the landing, and her exhausted expression lifted for a moment. "Now, shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I was just— "

"I won't tell your mother," she said with a wink. "But hurry back to your room! You need to get some rest. I heard the flu is going around."

"Yes, Fantine," Eponine groaned, standing and hobbling back through her doorway. Right before the kitchen vanished from her sight, she looked once more.

Azelma was staring. Black eyes inlaid in a paler face than Eponine's. Her dark hair tousled by the hat that she'd just put on her head. She was staring at Eponine. Accusing her. Blaming her.

Eponine gulped.

Seven in the morning.

Once her mother and sister left (seven thirty in the morning), Eponine waited until she heard Fantine leave as well, off to run errands for the Thernardiers while they went about their respective days. Per usual, Monsieur would spend his hours at the dingy Corinthe, the only bar in town, spending more time drinking the whisky than selling it. Madame would join him for a time, helping to pick up whatever bits and pieces had been left behind the night before. Azelma would depart on her school field trip.

Eponine was going to lose her virginity.

At eight, she rose from her bed, abandoning her robe in a fuzzy green pile on the floor. She took echoing, lonely footsteps to the bathroom, ready to do her hair and make up for The Moment with Montparnasse.

She was breaking a promise she and Azelma made when they were ten. A promise made in whispers and pinky shakes by twins who were so deeply connected they thought nothing could break them apart. So long as both of them loved Montparnasse, neither could have him.

Eponine examined her skin and hair in the warped mirror. The humidity had seeped into the wall upon which the mirror was mounting it, bending and causing the image to be distorted.

The lights above her snapped off and on. Just once. Eight-o-nine.

She twisted the knob on the sink and cleaned the underside of her bare fingernails. As she dug out a spec of dirt from beneath her palm, the water sputtered and suddenly the clear stream was dirty and brown. Nearly black.

Disgusted, she pulled her hand away from the water and shut it off quickly. Eponine bent to see if there was something blocking the faucet.

The lights flickered once more.

And there was a scurrying from inside the pipes.

Bugs—beetles, ants, spiders, maggots, roaches, and wasps came crawling up into the sink, accompanied by that disgusting black water.

Eponine screamed and jumped away.

Then it was gone.

The lights stayed on.

The ceramic basin was clear of crawling critters.

She clenched her eyes shut. Death is here, she thought.

Eight fifteen.

At eight thirty, Montparnasse entered the Thernardier household. Azelma, along with thirty-one classmates, climbed aboard a school bus.

At eight thirty-seven, Eponine let Montparnasse lay her down on her bed.

At eight thirty-nine, Azelma squirmed in her seat. Uncomfortable. Something was happening to Eponine—she could feel it.

At eight forty, he was inside her.

At eight forty, Azelma jumped up from her seat and stumbled down the aisle, gasping for air.

At eight forty-one, Eponine realized that The First Time wasn't all it was chalked up to be.

At eight forty-one, Azelma banged her fists against the closed door of the bus, begging and screaming to be let out.

At eight forty-two, the bus swerved as it rounded a sharp mountain curve. Unable to gain control of the vehicle, the driver watched with grim certainty and heartache as the edge of the cliff grew nearer.

At eight forty-three, Eponine screamed as she was suddenly engulfed in pain like she'd never known. She felt as though there was a knife sticking through her back, carving out her shoulder blades.

Azelma Thernardier's time of death: 08:43.

Later that day, as Eponine stood with her mother and father in the morgue to identify her twin's body, she looked down at her own face, surrounded by raven hair, and couldn't help but feel as if it were her fault.

Present day

The lights in the Corinthe flickered, starting from the edges and making their way inwards, until the entire bar was tossed into a tripping, strobe-light-like nightmare. The horror of seeing familiar faces made gaunt and maniac vanished when the room was plunged into darkness; the only lights that blinked were from cell phone screens. Eponine, unfazed, just tipped back her fourth shot of the night.

"God damn it. I hate Musain so fucking much," Grantaire muttered, lighting a candle so that he could see behind the bar.

"You know, for someone who says that a lot, you sure haven't made much of an effort to get out of here," she snapped. "Give me another."

"Actually, I think- as a friend- I have to cut you off. You have class tomorrow," he said with a wince, pulling her shot glass towards him.

"Fuck that. Fuck you," she hissed, grabbing it back. "Technically, I own this place, so I can fire you."

"No, your weaseling, alcoholic father owns this place. You don't own shit," he joked. Still, he pulled out a translucent bottle of vodka and let it dribble into the shot.

Suddenly all too vulnerable in the crowded bar, Eponine shrunk into herself, staring at the knock-off mahogany bar. "Don't you realize what tomorrow is?"

There was a beat of nothing between them before Grantaire realized. "Oh, shit. Sorry, 'Ponine."

"It's the fourth anniversary, you know. She could have gotten into the Sorbonne- lord knows her grades were good enough. She could have been going to school in America. She could be travelling the world. She could be married... But instead she's six feet under and I'm the one who got to survive," she forced in one prolonged breath. Her throat ached on the last syllable as thunder cracked and reverberated through the valley.

The lights blinked back on. The jukebox lurched to life. The fairy lights once again illuminated the wall of bottles.

"The next one's on the house," Grantaire said, an alcoholic's most sincere comfort.

She snorted. "I'm the owner's daughter. They're all on the house."

The music faded to complete silence as the songs switched. Grantaire moved to a customer a few stools down. A woman with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in clothes reminiscent of a time where fashion was basically dead. Eponine swigged her last two shots. Finally she started to feel the liquor in her veins.

Took damn long enough.

The other bartender stood a few feet away, staring blankly into the distance, a rag in one hand and a glass in another.

"Musichetta? Is everything alright?"

The music started up again, loud and throbbing. Some catchy tune from several years back, familiar enough that voices in the bar began to sing along.

"Why is there so little noise?" the other woman asked, still not meeting Eponine's eyes.

"What the hell are you on? This place is just as loud as it always is."

Musichetta snapped her eyes to Eponine's. There was genuine worry ingrained in the green. Something empty and haunting floated there. "Not the bar. The dead are quiet- too quiet."

Eponine rolled her eyes.

"They're completely silent."

"Yeah, okay, whatever," she said, snapping her fingers in Musichetta's face. "Focus. It's a busy night tonight. Everyone knew someone who died in the crash. We're all drinking to forget tonight."

Grantaire whistled as he slid back over to Eponine. "Have you ever seen the fine piece of ass that just walked through the door?"

She turned in her stool to see a striking form against the regular Corinthe crowd. His blond hair was slicked away from his face, curly at the nape of his neck. His skin was paler than the moon on the lake, and he wore a disheveled suit. A tie that stood out against his white shirt like a line of blood.

"Actually, I think so. He looks familiar," she said, absentmindedly. As the pale man pushed through the crowd, she racked her brain, trying desperately to place him. He was too unique looking to just resemble someone she might have seen on television. He was too haughty to be anyone she would have interacted with.

The man came to stand close to her. She could almost feel the blood through his veins, though his skin didn't flush from exertion, excitement, or cold.

"Is Cosette here?" he asked Grantaire, sharply.

Grantaire shook his head. "Uh, not that I know of. Take a look around, she might be at the pool tables or-"

"No, Cosette Fauchelevant. She's a waitress here."

"No she's not," Grantaire chuckled.

The blond man didn't seem to find any amusement in the situation. "Yeah, she is."

"Look, mon ami, if a Cosette worked here, I'd know."

Finally defeated, the man blinked, revealing something other than stone in his expression.

"I know a Cosette," Eponine blurted without meaning to. The man (the ghost? the angel? the phantom?) turned suddenly to her, burning his gaze into hers with eyes as blue as ice.

"Do you know where I can find her?" he asked, desperately.

"Better yet, I can show you," she provided. "C'mon, or else it'll get dark."

She couldn't help it. She threw her head back at her own joke. The stranger stared at her blankly.

Outside, the night was as deep as dark could be. Once the sun vanished behind the Alps in the evening, you'd better hope you had a flashlight or a streetlight to guide you through the twisted turns of the Musain streets.

Eponine stepped from the warm bar into the chilled night, allowing her eyes to adjust to the complete blackness. As she shivered, waiting to see the path, the stranger draped his coat over her shoulders.

"Thanks," she said. He didn't respond. "For helping you, can I get your name?"

"Enjolras."

"Is that a first or a last?"

Once again, no response.

"You're not very talkative."

They began to make their way down the hill and through the tunnel system. A man in a hoodie walked by them, brushing against Eponine's arm as he passed. His form was quiet and quick and dark, more like a shadow than a person. When she turned back for a second look, he had vanished. Fear struck her, but she swallowed it down and hurried her pace to match Enjolras's.

"How do you know Cosette?" he asked.

"He speaks!" she exclaimed. They came across a creek, burbling playfully, cracking the ice that still persisted in the nooks and crannies of boulders. Like a native, Enjolras hopped across the natural bridge. She followed, mimicking the steps she'd known since childhood. "Cosette and I know each other... well, let's just say that it's complicated. We're friends. Sort of." Eponine left it at that. "How long are you in town?"

"I've never left," he said, shortly. "I was born here and I intend to die here."

"That's weird. I've never seen you around the Corinthe before," she thought aloud, stumbling a little as she missed a rock that jutted from the ground. A noise sounded in the forest nearby and she was suddenly so very thankful she wasn't alone in her journey.

"I've never seen you there, either," he said. The tone implied that he no longer wanted to speak, so Eponine swallowed her questions and sarcastic quips as they rounded the bend and returned to a concrete road. The cracks seemed so deep in the dim moonlight that it was almost as though they cut straight to hell. No lights were on in any of the houses along Rue Plumet, casting the sense of a ghost neighborhood.

"She lives in number fifty four," Eponine said, pointing to a uniformly-made house (pale blue and tastefully landscaped in the light) that was indistinguishable from the rest.

He said nothing more to her, just rushed past as though he was never there in the first place. A pale spot against the dark, he moved as smooth as a spirit.

"You're welcome, asshole!" she shouted after him.

Carefully, so as to not alert Fantine of her shamefully late arrival, Eponine slipped her legs over the window sill and fell silently to the floor. A wind blew her curtains around her, brushing her face and caressing her arms. She reached up to close her window, but as the wind picked up speed, knick knacks on her dresser began to shake and a picture frame fell from her wall, crashing and shattering against the floor.

Eponine slammed her window shut and stood still in the pitch-black silence for several heartbeats, waiting to see if she could hear Fantine waking up. When there was nothing, she exhaled slowly and crossed to the unfortunate picture. She picked it up.

It was a photograph taken by the lake when she and Azelma were about fourteen. They were looking over their shoulders at the camera, arms linked and smiles static against their chubby cheeks. A crack ran across the glass, splintering along the photographed Eponine's back. A phantom pain brushed along her shoulders, reminding her of four years ago. Azelma under a white sheet.

A few knocks sounded against the wall that once separated the twins's rooms. Eponine started, then relaxed. She figured that Fantine must have been praying by the little make-shift shrine to Azelma that took over the bedroom after she died. Eponine knocked once (which meant, a long, long time ago, that she wanted Azelma to come to her bedroom to talk) to tell her caretaker that she was okay, and went to prepare for bed.

As she pulled her sweater over her head, her bedroom door creaked open, light spilling over the floorboards. Eponine spun around, only to freeze at the sight of a very familiar, very solid, silhouette.

"Azelma?" she whispered.

Yay! I'm back! I got this idea from a TV show. If you need something to watch on Netflix, just message me and I'll happily recommend it to you! However, for the sake of this story, I won't openly say what show this is based on so that the AU and the source material can remain separate.

I would like to apologize for any rough writing- I'm trying to get back into the swing of things.

Please review if you liked!