A/N: So this chapter is, I suppose, long awaited. It's really only a chapter to tell you what's happening, but it's the longest so far. I had horrible writer's block during this chapter, so much so that I literally wrote a 'I'm giving up on this' note for you guys. But yeah, this morning I had a splash of inspiration so I quickly got to writing, and here I produce Chapter 7. I've fully been working on this since the upload of chapter 6, which was like, the 25th, right? Gosh. Anyway, enjoy! I hope.
Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut. "Éponine?" He whispered, and opened his eyes again. "Éponine. Come now. Please, answer me."
But there was silence on Éponine's part. She lay limp on his shoulder, and Enjolras let a tear roll down his cheek as he kissed her forehead. Stoic, impassive, detached Enjolras, with someone dead on his shoulder. Someone he had opened up to not 48 hours earlier, in ways that he never thought he could with another human being. Someone with whom he had shared what little emotions he had on his person, who accepted them gratefully, earning his trust.
What was it that he felt? Lust? Love? Sorrow? There were too many words flooding into his head. Words were what he was usually best with, being someone who was studying for law, but not now. Now he hated words. All of these words that were trying to label what he felt, trying to label him as a person in that current moment. He just felt like he wanted to scream to the world and its God about how unjust everything was. He wanted to kill a hundred men, he wanted Éponine to be alive, he wanted to win this revolution for her but he wanted to win it with her. He didn't want to identify his feelings, he didn't want any of this to have happened.
He manoeuvered himself into a position where he could pick Éponine up in his arms, and he got to his feet. Everyone stood around him.
"Her name was Éponine," He called, "And she was a true example of Patria. She is representative of those that we fight for. She came here, hoping for a better future, but she died before she ever got to see one. Let it be known that, whether we win here or not, we also fight, like she did, as voices for those who wish to see a better future but cannot speak up. To see prejudice be clamped down on, to see those, who gorge themselves on money, and food, and wine, and other privileges that some do not even know exist, to see them cut down to size."
There was a moment of silence for her, and Enjolras stared down at her lifeless face. He shook his head, swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat. He had never felt like this before, and it was scaring him, but he realised it was now too late to begin feeling anything. He would revert back to his old ways. It was time again to focus on the revolution.
Pain. Darkness. A damp feeling on the cold floor beneath her. More pain, and silence. No one breathing, yet there were bodies everywhere. No one breathing, except for her and her ragged attempts.
The pain was almost unbearable. Éponine ached everywhere, but even through her confusion, she could tell that she'd been shot, with a gun. There was a concentrated pain in one area, and then it spread out over her body.
Bleary eyes began to let light in again, and she tried to speak, to make some sort of signal to anyone that might have been listening that she was alive. But no noise came out.
She blinked a few times, willing herself to regain some of her strength so she could look around the room she lay in. Her neck craned slowly, but what she saw only let waves of tears fall from her eyes.
She was laying in between the bodies of her friends. Bahorel lay with his mouth and eyes wide open, Jehan Prouvaire in the most angelic form she could ever imagine anyone laying in death. Gavroche, her Gavroche, lay beside her, his eyes wide open and his hands clasped at his midriff, as though he lay in a coffin. She let out a strangled cry at the sight of her baby brother, dead, stone cold dead on a stone cold floor surrounded by other people in the same position.
Éponine wept. She wept for the people that lay around her and she wept at the fact that she lived and they did not and she wept the future of France, because if these were the only people who would speak out against injustice, and they had been shot down, who else would be left to speak out?
She knew she couldn't stay where she was. She knew that she had to go on, get herself out of there. As she looked around more, she realised that she was still in a shop behind the barricade they had all built. Soon, someone would come to throw the bodies into a mass grave, and she knew that if she was caught alive, as a revolutionary she would be tried for treason against the King and executed.
Éponine dragged herself from that wretched place. The pain was beyond belief, like nothing any word could describe - both mentally and physically. But thankfully, her will to live was slightly stronger, and it gave her the strength to crawl through back alleys and dark streets until she got herself some sort of help, if anyone would give it. Pain struck through her body, and she sobbed, cried, and groaned as she made her way through the streets. At one point she was on her feet, but for less than thirty seconds, and she had only made around five short steps. She was too feeble to stand.
She had come to her last stretch, and she could not make it anymore. She lay on a patch of grass under a tree that gave her shade outside the Jardin du Luxembourg, and people did not see her. They walked past her like she was blending in with the grass, like she was worth nothing. In all fairness, she thought to herself, her mind being her last wavering strength, I am worth nothing. But surely someone must help me? Surely someone will be kind, will be good? But Éponine was too feeble to shout out, or cry for anyone to notice her, to save her from the pitch black abyss she could feel herself sinking into. So she watched the sky instead, her eyes slowly shutting once more, awaiting her certain death.
Joly was a nervous soul. He wasn't a coward, never that, but he definitely wasn't the bravest of them all. There were often times when he'd really worry everyone with his oddness, like how he would check his pulse during a thunderstorm, or if he sneezed he would fret for ages afterwards that he'd probably contracted some deadly disease from the streets. He could be called a coward, but the sacrifices he was making when joining the revolution just proved otherwise.
And there's a thin line between cowardice, and needing to save your own life when someone else depends on it as well as you. Especially when you're a student doctor, who would have been preparing to take the Hippocratic Oath, promising to always preserve life whenever possible.
When the gunfire had fallen silent, Joly awoke, and pried himself from the spot he was stuck to. The soldiers hadn't realised he was there. With a few grazes to his skin drawing blood, he had been knocked unconscious and immediately presumed dead. As he looked around, he couldn't tell for a second whether he was relieved or offended. Of course, he quickly chose relief, but the pain set in as he fully registered that all of his friends were dead. All of them dead and gone, and he would never speak to any of them again.
He walked through the bodies, weeping at the loss. He was unashamed of his tears, letting them wet his face like they would a bawling child's face.
Joly ascended the stairs in the Musain, and sobbed as he saw Enjolras' body sprawled out on the floor. He kneeled beside him, and grabbed his hand, shaking his head at how warm it still was. He bowed his head in silence, letting nothing but his sniffles fill the air.
He jumped back when he felt the hand he was holding twitch and convulse, and he stared in disbelief and horror as Enjolras' fingers quivered. Joly moved forward again and took the blonde man's pulse, his eyes widening when he felt the weak beating against the skin on the inside of his wrist.
But he heard voices downstairs, authoritative, firm voices. Soldiers, who had come back to count the dead.
Joly panicked, and looked around. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned in disgust at the idea that popped into his head, but he knew he needed to survive to save Enjolras. He dipped his hand in the blood that had pooled around Enjolras and rubbed it around his shirt and face. Then, he laid down on his back, limbs sprawled limply as if they were admitting his defeat, and he played dead.
"Stay dead, Enjolras. Don't open your eyes, don't move. Stay where you are." Joly warned through gritted teeth, not even sure if his friend could hear him.
He heard two soldiers come up the stairs, and there was silence as they stared around the room. He could feel their eyes lingering on him, burning holes through his body.
"Are they all just going to be thrown into a big grave?" One soldier asked the other. He sounded quite young, his tone like that of a child asking questions to his mother.
"I should think so. It's sad, y'know." The second one sounded just as young as the first. "No one should have had to die but… revolution against the King isn't the way forward." Joly almost rose from the (fake) dead to correct this soldier on his ignorance. Les Amis de L'ABC were not just a group of people who wanted regicide. They wanted the painful blatancy of class differentiation crushed, the crippling weight of the unjust government to be relieved, the easy action of passing out a starving man with no remorse or second thought to be obliterated.
"Come on. I don't want to be here when they come to collect the dead."
Once Joly was sure the coast was clear, he got to his knees and checked that Enjolras was still alive. He gasped with disbelief at his stubbornness as he counted eight bullet wounds around his torso, and was careful when picking him up. He carried him down the stairs and out of the Musain, all the while checking for any Guardsmen still lurking around. When he was sure that there wasn't a single soul around, he began making his way down back streets and alleys, careful not to run into the main streets as two fugitives, the leader and a participant of a revolution against the monarchy, so as not to get arrested.
The streets were dark and cold, and Joly was tired and hurting but he knew that he had to carry on until he found a hospital - or any sort of sanctuary - to bring Enjolras to. There was still fresh blood coming from his wounds, and his breathing had become even more shallow than it already was.
Joly found himself on Rue Saint-Antoine, and the wide street was nearly empty, apart from a few gentlemen strolling the length of it. A few metres ahead, he could see a church, or some kind of religious building, and it looked large enough that it might house two travelling men who had been 'shot in the crossfire of that awful uprising just two days ago!'.
Joly kicked the door a few times, unable to knock with his fists. A young woman answered, a nun who seemed very timid. Joly inwardly groaned at himself as he realised he had turned up at a female convent, sarcastically commending himself on how amazing his refuge-picking skills were.
"Mademoiselle, s'il vous plait. This man - he is only young - has been hurt terribly! We were caught in the crossfire of the revolution, he has taken eight bullets to his chest and I fear he will die soon if I cannot tend to his wounds in a sterile area. I beg of you to lend me a room to save his life, please!"
The young woman stared in horror at Enjolras' limp form in Joly's arms, and nodded her head, opening the large wooden door wider. Joly thanked her and stepped in, taking a moment to notice the difference in warmth as he crossed the threshold.
He followed the lady down the halls with a quick pace, as she led him to a smallish room that was unoccupied.
The bedsheets were white, which Joly grimaced at as he knew they wouldn't be when he was finished. The room was dark until the woman lit each candle with haste, and he noticed the layers of dust that covered each surface, showing that the room had clearly not been in use for a while.
Joly sent the young lady away with instructions to bring him a bowl of hot water and the medical equipment needed for him to patch Enjolras back up. He blew the dust off of the stands that he'd be using and took Enjolras' jacket and shirt off, grimacing at the blood that was smeared all over his skin and the wounds that would have been fatal for anyone else, were they not as stubborn and hardheaded as Enjolras.
When he had been brought the equipment by a few nuns who had each gasped at the sight of Enjolras on the bed, he got to work, extracting, cleaning, sewing and patching.
Jean Valjean had always been a perfect example of how to live life.
Well, maybe not a perfect example, due to his many years in prison, and his constant dodging of the law.
However, his personality and his morals were still golden and pure. After all, he had taken on the burden of raising a child he was not obliged to even acknowledge, yet he fed, clothed, and raised her better than any man might of. This child was his salvation, of course, not his burden, but even before young Cosette, he was a good man, only having pure intentions.
So of course, it seemed absolutely extraordinary for him to see an injured, vulnerable young girl lying in the grass, and not help her. It was absurd.
Jean Valjean approached the girl, and bent down, focusing on the wounds she had. There was a gaping hole in her hand, and one in her shoulder, and he gulped at the sight. "Girl," He said, tapping her. "Are you conscious? Are you alive?" He reached for her wrist and felt her pulse, and nodded at his own question when he felt her beating pulse, though he had to linger a moment as it could be easily missed.
The girl was so near death she was almost worth organising a funeral for, not saving. But Jean Valjean wasn't that type of person. He wasn't someone to leave a girl for dead, to not bother an attempt at saving her life.
So he gingerly scooped her up, careful not to put any unknowing pressure on her wounds at the moment so that she would not bleed, and carried her all the way back to his home.
When he got there, he immediately instructed his housemaid to tend to the girl while he fetched his doctor. He carried her to his spare room, and laid her down for the maid.
"Take a towel and put pressure on her shoulder wound so that it might stop bleeding." He told the maid, and she nodded, fetching a towel to help the girl who lay unconscious on the bed. "I will make haste and find a doctor."
As he left the room, Cosette stood worriedly in the doorway.
"What is it, Papa?" She asked, trying to look behind him to catch a better glimpse of what was happening. "What's going on?"
"Cosette, help Madame Lapointe attend to the wounded girl in the room. I will be back soon."
He rushed out past her and hobbled his way to his doctor's house, not far from his own. Every step he took caused a stab of pain in his lower back, so there was a permanent grimace on his face. Not two days ago had he carried a young revolutionary, Marius Pontmercy, from the Rue de la Chanvrerie - the place of the barricade - to safety, and just now he had brought the young girl from the Jardin du Luxembourg to his apartment. Of course, she wasn't nearly as heavy as the boy, not by a long shot, but Jean Valjean was old, very old now, and any sort of strain was bound to have an ill effect on his body.
He reached his physician's house and knocked on the door urgently. It wasn't late, so there was a chance that he might be out, tending to one of his other patients. However, the doctor opened his door, his eyebrows raising as he saw Jean Valjean standing on his doorstep,
"Monsieur Fauchelevent?" He asked, stepping out over his threshold. "What is it, man? You look shaken. Are you well?"
"Yes, quite, Doctor Marchand. However, there is a young girl back at my home who desperately needs the help of a physician."
"Is it your Cosette? Is she alright?" Fauchelevent shook his head.
"Non, Monsieur, it is not Cosette, she is well. But this other young woman, she was caught in the crossfire of the revolution. She has two large bullet wounds and needs tending to by a physician, immediately." It had not occurred to Jean - Monsieur Fauchelevent - that she could have actually been involved with the fighting, like he had. Of course, women were not allowed to join such things, but she was wearing trousers now that he thought about it, like she had been posing as a boy.
Fauchelevent sighed, shaking his head. What a foolish girl she was. What was her reason for joining the revolution? Yes, she seemed as though she lived in the middle of everything the Students had been fighting against, but it still baffled him as to why she would want to fight, but no other lower class citizen would, regardless of gender, or age. She was stronger than most, this strange child.
However, he wouldn't say that there was a chance she was involved in the wretched uprising. No one had to know something that wasn't their business, especially when it counted on whether they'd give her the help she desperately needed or not.
"Mon Dieu," Marchand said, and he retreated back into his house with his index finger held up. "One moment, Monsieur Fauchelevent, I will retrieve my things!"
When Fauchelevent arrived back at his home with the doctor, he saw that Éponine had been tended to excellently. Most of the dried blood had been cleaned away from her wound, and Cosette and Madame Lapointe sat by her side, putting pressure on the wounds she sported.
"Thank you, ladies, but the Doctor will take over now. Will you be needing any help?" Fauchelevent turned to Marchand, who looked at Madame Lapointe.
"Madame, would you be so kind as to help me?" The elderly woman nodded, and ushered Cosette out of the room.
"Off you go, sweetheart," She spoke softly, her hand on Cosette's back as she walked her out of the door. "We can't have you seeing this." Cosette nodded, and followed her father away, wiping a tear from her face.
She had recognised the brown haired girl lying on the bed. She supposed that she'd have to be truly dumb not to remember her face, but it had been years since she had last seen Éponine Thénardier that it could be understood.
Cosette probably should have felt hate. She probably should have refused to help her, and beg her father not to help her either. But she was a soft soul, and she could not hold a grudge to someone who was as small as she when she'd lived in the Sergeant of Waterloo, over in Montfermeil. Poor Éponine, she was too young to realise the actions she was doing to Cosette. She would copy her wretched parents' wrongdoings, seeing them only as though they were right, as we all do learn from our parents at such young, impressionable ages.
Éponine was a poor girl of the street now, that was plenty obvious. Cosette could only now feel great pity in her heart as she thought about the hardships that the girl would have gone through in those rough years. She doubted Thénardier and his wife would have become any less wicked, and in their own struggles would probably have turned their evil antics upon their children more than a few times.
Cosette could only pray to The Lord for this girl now, pray that she would be alive and safe, with no fatal harm done.
Joly sat by Enjolras' side for most of the days. The nuns at the convent had been kind enough to let them both stay for as long as they needed, and Joly had thanked them profusely. The Priest of the convent had visited Enjolras, and blessed him with Holy Water. He had offered to read him his Last Rites, but Joly gritted his teeth and shook his head, informing the Priest that he was a doctor and knew that Enjolras was going to be okay, no matter of how bad he looked right now.
The truth was that Joly, despite his knowledge, didn't actually know whether Enjolras would be okay or not. He couldn't really say whether he was going to die or not, and though it seemed more likely than not, Joly did not want to acknowledge the idea of his death. He had lost all of his friends, every single one except for Enjolras, so the idea of Enjolras dying and leaving him completely was daunting. It was scary, and it was one that loomed over his head every single day.
