PROLOGUE

Disclaimer: All character and novel rights belong to Victor Hugo. Song lyrics belong to the creators of Les Misérables, the musical. I own nothing except for my own imagination.

A cockroach scuttled across her wrist, on its way along the stone wall her back was rested on. Éponine barely even blinked. She was, after all, a gamine and her lifestyle entailed events of much more horror than an insect. Such an event was happening now.

Her chest heaved with the effort of both fleeing and staying as still as she could, and she winced with every unintentional twitch of a finger or foot as she bit her lip to keep herself from making a sound. She could still hear the pounding of his footsteps and see the dangerous glint in his green eyes, but Éponine steeled herself from the fear threatening to seize her heart. She also steeled herself from the pain of her dislocated shoulder and the other various cuts and bruises scattered across her grimy skin.

She couldn't be found. She couldn't be found. If she was, there was no telling what Montparnasse would do this time. Flog her? Cut off a finger? Kill her? Éponine almost smiled bitterly. Death was always the easy, painless solution, and so he never gave it to her.

Seconds and then minutes ticked by. Even as she strained her ears there was no sound to be heard. Éponine silently counted to twenty as steadily as possible before relaxing in relief. Perhaps she'd had a stroke of luck and outran him. She slumped against the wall before pushing herself off and took a couple of steps back up the alley.

A hand grabbed her wrist.

Éponine screamed as the vice-like grip pulled her around the corner and up against the wall, a dirty hand closing around her mouth before she could make any more noise. "Shut up! Do you want to get me caught, little whore?" Montparnasse whispered furiously into her ear. She squirmed and hissed like a cat before biting down hard on one of his fingers. He roared in pain before wrenching his hand away from her mouth. "Son of a bitch!" he swore, and Éponine allowed herself a moment of satisfaction before she felt the cold knife on her throat.

"You move and I'll kill you, pute!" he growled, greasy dark hair flying around the face that could have been attractive, had it not been twisted into hatred.

"No, you won't," Éponine countered, feeling exceptionally brave. "That would only end my suffering."

"I'll make you beg me to kill you then," Montparnasse said, voice cruel, teeth gnashing.

Éponine raised her chin but instantly regretted it because the knife cut deeper into her flesh. "I'd do it myself, and you will be caught and punished for murder." Hazel-brown stared into dark green because they both knew what this meant. Capital punishment.

"Then I won't get caught, will I?" he ground out, eyes growing even darker and Éponine absentmindedly wondered why he was still talking when he could kill her already. The blood from her neck wound was gushing into the brown of her tattered dress, turning it black.

"I wouldn't get my hopes up," said a new voice from behind Montparnasse. The newcomer's face was blocked from view but the voice struck a memory in her brain. Where had she heard it before?

Montparnasse turned and the other man - she could see his outline now - landed a hefty right hook to his jaw. The force of the impact knocked him to the ground. There was a quick blur of movement, and suddenly Montparnasse was staring into the pistol of Éponine's rescuer.

She knew his voice now. She'd heard it many times before, speaking only of revolution, freedom, and a dawning new world. She even knew his face. Sculpted like a Roman statue, pale, with impassioned blue eyes and tumbling blonde curls.

Enjolras.

"Are you going to call the police on me, bourgeois boy?" Montparnasse smirked, raising his eyebrows tauntingly, though Éponine could see the flicker of fear in his eyes.

"I might," Enjolras replied tightly. The pistol didn't waver from between his opponent's eyes. "If you make one bad move."

"I don't think you understand, révolutionnaire," Montparnasse said, though his smirk dropped ever so slightly. "I have evaded them for my entire life, because I am a professional at my trade."

"Trade? I'll stick to calling it thievery," Enjolras bit out.

"The garce you're trying to defend is as much of a thief as I am," Montparnasse spat. "As well as a paid-"

There was a loud bang as the pistol went off and Montparnasse staggered back, howling with pain at the bullet in his arm. "Just get the hell out of here," Enjolras said, and the other gave them an enraged glare.

"You can be sure your father will know about this," Montparnasse snarled, stumbling towards the daughter of said father. Éponine felt the blood in her veins run cold. "And you can be sure we'll both make you scream."

"Leave," Enjolras hissed, shoving the man away, and he fled the scene, cursing under his breath as he did so.

Éponine was left staring at Enjolras' profile, the moonlight cutting shadows across the planes of his face. His jaw was still tense and his blue eyes were still hard as flint. The sheen of sweat on his skin made him glow in the moonlight. He was beautiful.

"How did you know?" Êponine rasped, once she found her voice.

He gave her a quick glance, so fast she would have missed it if she'd blinked. "I heard the scream," he said curtly.

"I guess I did get him caught then," she said, suddenly very aware of her appearance. The blush on her face was hidden by the layer of grime on her skin.

Enjolras gave her another unreadable look before nodding once and turned away. She was confused until he took a step away from her. "You're leaving?" she couldn't help herself from blurting out. This time she was sure even the soil on her cheeks couldn't keep the scarlet from showing.

He stopped and swiveled to face her, the blue eyes boring into her brown ones. He didn't say a word.

"I mean- Well, you just saved my life and shot a man in the arm, and you're just going to leave without a word?" Éponine cried, before she could be embarrassed at her outburst.

Enjolras shrugged.

"Don't you speak? You talk an awful lot in your speeches," Éponine snapped, getting annoyed.

A hint of a smile quirked his lips upwards. "I don't talk when I don't need to," he said, and Éponine liked the sound of his voice a little too much.

"Well, I'm asking you to talk." She jutted out a hip and placed a hand on it.

"Who was he?" Enjolras said, and the change of topic (and the topic itself) was so sudden Éponine took a step back.

"What?" she gaped, even though she'd heard him perfectly well.

"You heard me perfectly well. Didn't you say you wanted me to talk?"

A bit unnerved at his quotation of her thoughts, Êponine took ahold of her bearings once more. "You don't need to know who he is," she said firmly, a little coldly.

"I just saved your life, I have a right to know," Enjolras countered, his eye twitching in irritation.

Éponine glowered. "You are not privy to my secrets, as I am not privy to yours," she told him, and her lips pressed tightly together.

He looked like he wanted to argue more, but backed off, his face once again a mask of marble. "Very well." He gave her a small two-fingered salute. "I'll see you around, Mademoiselle." With that he turned and swiftly walked into the darkness of the night.

Mademoiselle. Nobody had ever called her that, not even Marius. Éponine stared after his retreating figure, wishing she had let him stay a little longer.

They barely saw each other for more than a month after that. When they did they pretended not to.