Chapter 3

Calling In The Dead Of Night

Eponine groaned as she remembered the infuriating leader of the Amis. He couldn't be decent after two hundred years of her absence. Her ship had just been shipwrecked, two people had died, he could at least try to be a genuine human being. She balled her fists and her thoughts went back to Marius. Round and round and back where you began. The look of adoration and love on his freckled face. She still felt such ancient pain that she wished would just leave her body. They were staying at an inn in the middle of Paris and her bed was still uncomfortable, though preferable to the basement floors that she slept on for years. The dark night air blew through the cracks in the window. Eponine pulled her covers around her and tried to keep warm. After a few minutes of horrible coldness Eponine got of bed and slipped on one of Honore's dresses. It was too big and it ended at the midway point in her legs.

"Eponine?" she heard Francis say.

"Yeah," she muttered, her Parisian drawl still prominent after years of no use.

"Are you cold?"

"No," she lied. "I'm used to this."

She inhaled the scent of rain on the horizon.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Aren't you supposed to rot after you die?" she asked, looking at him quizzically.

"A few months before I… revived you, we pumped a chemical into you which replaced your flesh."

"Interesting. I'm going out."

Eponine grabbed a coat and slipped out of the inn before he could stop her. The scent of rain was even heavier now that she was outside. The few lights that remained reflected on the pavement, misty. She hugged the coat closer to her body. The cold bit into her arms and legs and face but she did nothing to stop it. It reminded her of the night when she went to Marius on the barricade, when her body fell like a marionette with cut strings.

The rocks bit into her feet, but they were tough from years of living on the street. A cough rasped in her throat but she wasn't sick. She knew how to look after herself. She felt no pain. Everything was numb, her body, her feet, her face. Eponine's coat was flimsy, the one she'd had on her body the day she died. Eponine wasn't sure if she was reliving it somehow, reminding her that she should be grateful for her life.

Eponine knew where she was headed. She avoided the alleys but stayed in the darkness, away from the light. There was a row of houses built on the banks of the Seine, not too far from where she was now. The lights were just bright enough so she could see their reflection in the dark waters. The sound of thunder ripped through the air and she jumped. Growling she turned her head. "Shut up," she rasped and turned back to the Seine. She sat down against the grass. Her bare feet drew pictures in the mud. A flash of light ripped apart the inky heavens, spewing its contents across the ground. Eponine watched as droplets started to make rings in the waters. The darkness shadowed her face, making her features sharper and more powerful. Cold seared through her body as raindrops splattered on her skin. They increased in number until they were tiny pinpricks all over her body. The thunder roared again and she shivered, gripping her arms tightly to fight against the cold. She didn't want to go back to the inn. It reminded her too much of her old inn in Montfermeil. After that period ended, her life had fallen totally and utterly apart.

The breeze of the wind on her face made her bend over to hide from the rein. Her teeth chattered but it felt nice, as though it was reminding her that she was alive. Eponine looked at her fingers and saw that they were dark from the mud. The water raced down her ringlets and dripping off the edge, onto her legs.

"Aren't you cold," asked a voice behind her.

"What're y-you doing out here?" she stammered.

"I was on my way home, and the rain started. It hasn't been that long."

"It's really late."

"I know, and why are you here?"

Eponine turned her head, and a flash of light lit up the man's golden curls. Eponine shrugged. "I don't like the inn we're staying at."

"You're staying in an inn?" he asked, his eyebrows raising.

"Yes, Francis is certainly rich enough, with Honore's perfect clothes." Eponine's sarcasm ended with a bout of coughs. "Far out, if I get sick, what am I supposed to do?" she asked.

She swore she could see a smile on his perfectly sculpted face, but she pushed the notion away. This was the man made of marble, after all. Enjolras undid his jacket. Eponine followed his gaze to her soaking wet, flannel thing, and shook her head. "I don't need your pity, Monsieur."

"Yes you do," Enjolras said, putting the jacket around her shoulders.

Eponine leaned into him, trying to share some body heat, and Enjolras didn't flinch. Eponine felt a pang of surprise that he had lent a jacket to a street-urchin. Then again, this was Enjolras, leader of the rebellion.

They were close enough so that they could feel each other's heat. They watched as the rain fell about them, watering the flowers.