PLEASE READ AND REVIEW EVEN THOUGH I DON'T DESERVE IT UGH. Oh, and I promise, I have most of the next (EXCITING) chapter already written, so it won't take very long. Well, enjoy babes! xoxo

X.

Here it comes! Here comes the first day! Here it comes! Here comes the first day!
It starts up in our bedroom after the war
After the war! After the war...

The next few days turned into weeks, and Enjolras hated himself more and more. Ever since their accidental kiss, ever since Enjolras let his emotions get the better of him, Eponine had been distant. It wasn't drastic and it wasn't obvious; but Enjolras could tell. He didn't have the courage that night, or the night after, or the one after that, to hold her at night. When she didn't face him, didn't shuffle next to him after the candles where out, he knew he shouldn't try. And it hurt him. He didn't know what to do with his arms, with his hands. He felt empty and so far away from here now. He couldn't sleep. He saw circles under his eyes in the morning when he glanced in the mirror, trying to smooth out his blonde curls.

Eponine wasn't outwardly mad at him, or upset, but he could tell. When they met to walk home at the end of the day, she smiled at him like usual, but it didn't reach her eyes. She no longer hooked her arm around his, and she even talked less. She seemed defeated.

She would still have nightmares from time to time, that wasn't unusual. Both her and Enjolras still suffered from the barricade, and he was certain it would be that way forever. But, instead of rolling over into his arms, Eponine would leave their bed and sit outside, no matter how cold. One night she woke him up, accidentally, her shoulders shaking and hot tears falling from her eyes. She was sitting up, her legs hanging over the side of the bed, trying to muffle her crying. Enjolras sat up when he realized what was happening.

"Eponine?"

He spoke quietly, trying not to surprise her. She didn't respond.

"Ep?"

This time he reached forward and rested his hand on her shoulder, but she winced. She still wouldn't face him, wouldn't turn to him and bury her face in his chest like usual. Enjolras sat up, freed himself from the covers and got out of bed, walking around to face her and kneeling so he was on her level. He had almost forgotten that things had changed.

"Eponine, are you alright?"

He tried to hold her hand, but she pulled away and wouldn't meet his gaze. She hid behind her long dark hair, not letting him see her tears or her scrunched up face. She stood up and walked away from him, grabbing her cloak on her way out the door. Enjolras couldn't do anything but go back to bed, waiting and listening to her cry herself dry. When she came back in moments later, freezing cold under the blankets, Enjolras pretended he was asleep. He pretended nothing happened, like hadn't heard her sobbing a few feet away from him in the cold.

And he blamed himself for not being able to help her.

Usually Enjolras would keep his nightmares to himself. He was lucky because he usually didn't toss and turn, didn't wake up in a cold sweat like Eponine did. He would just wake up, breathing heavily, and calm himself down. He thanked God every night that Eponine was a heavy sleeper, and that he didn't have to burden her with his scars.

But one night, about two weeks after the "incident", Enjolras woke up screaming.

He had been having a normal dream; blurry figures and voices too faint to make out. Images of the barricade mixed into his conciousness slowly, until he was totally immersed in the barricade. There were screams, gunfire; adrenaline was coursing through his veins even though he was sleeping. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

The voices became more real, the figures less blurred, and in a moment of panic Enjolras began to wonder if the little house with Eponine was a dream instead.

There was so much blood, everything was tinted red. He saw his friends again, he heard them speak. He heard their last words, again and again. Men fell at his feet, chaos surrounding him, but it seemed like he was rooted to the ground and forced to watch. In his other nightmares he was participating, in this he was a bystander. He saw Courfrayc run in front of him, then fall at his feet. Joly Grantaire, Combferre, Bousette... they ran by him, fighting, one by one and fell dead at his feet. He was screaming at them, pleading with them to get up, surely they couldn't really be dead...

"Get up, all of you! Joly, stand! Please... oh please, someone stand..."

Eponine?

He found Eponine amongst the chaos, amongst the fallen bodies. She was unresponsive. She was dead.

"Eponine?"

He kneeled next to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, but nothing happened. His heart stopped when he felt her ice cold skin, when her chest didn't rise up and down with breath.

His heart was beating out of his chest, his mouth went dry... he let go of her in shock, stepping back and nearly tripping over more of the dead. People he knew, people he cared about, even if he was too serious and too made of stone to let such a human flaw show through: affection.

His dream world was still now, eerily so, as he stood amongst the dead. He looked down. He had blood on his shoes, on the hem of his pants... on his hands... he could taste it. He heard the voice of his father.

"You have blood on your hands... the blood of friends, of people who trusted you. The lord will judge you as a coward when you meet him, will call you a murderer. A captain that didn't go down with his ship: a disgrace. A criminal. You wasted human lives for nothing. You have blood on your hands... wasted human life, on your hands. You led these people to their deaths, lied to them about a better future. You are no different than the serpent that tempted Eve, than Cain who killed his brother Abel."

Enjolras sunk to the ground, blocking his ears, screamed.

Please, stop talking. Stop everything.

"It should have been you... the sickness that took your brother... it should have infected your lungs instead of his. Lungs that went on to breathe lies, false hope... lungs that breathed warm breath into that girl you shouldn't love. You don't deserve her. You don't deserve life. Blood on your hands... now you have hers as well..."

Enjolras shot up, back in bed with Eponine but still so far away in Paris.

He was sweating, but freezing all at once. The blankets were tangled around him and he was breathing so fast and hard that he could hear his breaths, labored, as if he had ran half way around the world. He was only slightly aware of Eponine next to him, saying something... but the voice of his father drowned her out. He tried to say something, but when he opened his mouth he still tasted blood. He was shaking, he felt Eponine next to him. His eyes were clenched so tightly shut his head started to ache, his throat was dry as a bone.

"Enjolras!"

Eponine was shouting, he wasn't sure why, until he realized he had been screaming. He stopped, he didn't want to frighten her. He continued to sit upright, but buried his head in his hands and cried.

Oh, god, it had been so real. It was real. Blood on his hands... he frantically began to wipe his hands on the sheets, on his shirt... he needed to get the blood off of his skin. He was slightly aware of him mumbling about blood, about judgment. Eponine, her face now somewhat visible in the moonlight in front of him, was streaked with tears.

Maybe she had seen the blood. She must be afraid. She screamed again,

"ENJOLRAS!"

Her voice, yelling his name, was loud and desperate. It snapped him back, if only a small amount. It was enough to make him stop frantically moving, trying to get away from everything, trying to clean himself of his sins. Eponine was in front of him on the bed, straddling him, and it was then that Enjolras realized she was actually restraining him. His muscles released some of their tension, he stopped fighting. His chest still heaved up and down, and he came back completely when he felt Eponine's hot breath on his forehead.

"Enjolras, please, it was a nightmare... oh my god, please... stop!"

He did.

He opened his eyes, slowly, the blankets and Eponine wrapped around his shaking body. He could scarcely breathe. He had stopped screaming, stopped writhing around, and was just shaking.

"Enjolras? merde, thank god..."

She said this more to herself than to him. He felt a jolt of panic.. it was part of his dream, the blood, but he still felt it on his hands. He looked at them, held between his and Eponine's bodies in the moonlight, and saw only his pale skin.

"I have blood... on my hands..."

His voice didn't sound like his own; it was small and afraid. His voice cracked when he spoke. Eponine's dark hair fanned out and framed his face, it protected him.

"No, Enjolras, your hands are clean, I promise."

He saw her small dark hand reach to one of his, squeezing it. She was shaking too. He could only mumble to her, he sounded delirious, but the words fell from his mouth.

"I do... I do, I have blood on my hands. Their blood... I will be judged for their blood... I should have... so much blood..."

Still straddling him, almost hovering above him with her small body trying to envelop his, he felt her grip his forearms and hold them still; he was still shaking.

"Who's judging you? who's judging you, Enjolras...?"

"God... I'm a criminal... the blood... my fault..."

His blue eyes locked onto her gold ones, he could feel them fill with tears. He could feel his brow knitted together with emotion, he could feel himself shake. it was like he wasn't in control. Her small, warm hands still held firmly to his arms.

"No, no one is judging you. no one blames you, it was a nightmare... please, belive me. God... God can't judge you."

"Eponine,"

"He can't, He can't. God has never been a man. God has never had to pick up a weapon. God has never had the need to fight for his freedoms. It doesn't seem fair that God would sit on a throne of gold and put marks next to your name when you were trying to do what was right."

He looked at her, her face streaked with tears...

You don't deserve her. You don't deserve life. Blood on your hands... now you have hers as well...

He started to sob. His whole body shook; hot tears fell from his eyes. He clung to Eponine as tight as he could, burying his face in her hair as she held him against her chest with her fingers in his golden hair. All he could say between his shaky sobs was "I'm sorry, so sorry..."
He could hear soft words coming from her mouth, but couldn't make them out. She was crying too, not knowing what to say to him or what to do. She was crying, trying to hide it, because she knew she could never take this pain away from him.

He cried in her arms like that, holding her tight. He didn't know what else to do.

It was like his childhood, when he was very young. Crying into his mother's shoulder after a nightmare about monsters under the bed. But the monsters are real, and they're in Paris. They're in his soul. And His mother is dead, along with his friends. Eponine is all he has, and he's going to lose her. He already has.

So he clings to her, still half in his nightmare. The fabric of her nightdress is damp with his tears.

His heavy, fast breathing slows, and minute by minute the tears sop and he's fully aware. Back to himself. She still holds him close, her small hands full of the fabric of his nightshirt. Enjolras breathes in the scent of her hair and skin, his face now resting on her shoulder and against her neck. She takes a deep, shaky breath, and buries her face in his hair. His hands rest on her back, and it's now that he realizes just how small she is.

It's Eponine that is hovering over him, her small legs surrounding his; her shoulder that his face is buried in. It's Eponine that is whispering to him, anything comforting that comes to mind.

This Thernedier girl, whom a shallow man would see as a skinny Parisian girl who likes purple flowers, candles at Christmas.. how he saw her at first... but his Eponine is a force of nature, a hurricane in the form of a woman. Her body is peppered in scars from her childhood, in bruises from adulthood. He knows she has a wound like his, both on her skin and on her heart.

Shouldn't he be comforting her? Holding her? No. His nightmare might have been just that, a nightmare, but the words spoken to him in it still sit in his heart, and he believes them. If Eponine were to speak up about him, about the feelings she is sure to know he has, he would have an answer.

Enjolras, why do you ignore my gaze? Why don't you allow yourself to hold me at night like you used to? Why do you love me, but push it away?

It's penance, 'Ponine.

He didn't even remember falling asleep, or staying awake for that matter. But he could still see the tears in her eyes that morning, but he pretended he didn't notice. A bit of the old Enjolras came back. He was a stone wall, a cold figure, but without the passion of revolution. He worked longer hours at the law office, making a point to come home when the sun had already set and Eponine was already in bed. He would sleep at his desk for a few hours, then wake up early and walk to town, opting out of a painfully quiet breakfast with Eponine and instead buying his bread and coffee at the cafe down the street.

He could tell it was weighing on her, and he hated it, but he didn't know what else to do. He was almost mad at her, at times. He was furious at her long dark hair and the way it rested on her shoulders, because despite his best efforts they did end up crossing paths at times. He hated how delicate her wrists looked as she poured her coffee, how the bed sheets draped over the curve in her waist. He hated her wicked smile and her sad smile and the way he could tell which one it was by the way she tilted her head. And he hated himself, because he tried to find faults in her, but instead he saw violets in the bags under her eyes.

"Merde!"

Eponine cursed, having just dropped her cup of coffee. The handle of the pewter mug had chipped and the coffee had spilled over almost half of the kitchen floor. She bent over to retrieve the cup, still cursing under her breath, and placed it on the counter. She stayed facing the counter for a moment and ran her hands through her hair.

Enjolras was just about to leave for the law office when she dropped the cup, and now looking at Eponine being so obviously flustered he knew it wasn't only because of the spill. He took off his dark coat, placed it on the table and retrieved a rag from one of the shelves.
By this time, Eponine had turned around.

"No, really, I can get it. You need to go to work."

"It's fine, Eponine. I am early anyway." He kneeled down and began to wipe up the coffee.

"Just let me get it, please."

Eponine had kneeled down next to him and reached for the rag, which Enjolras gave up. He knew it was no use fighting with her. She looked down at the floor, not making eye contact with him at all. He could feel it, in the air, that she was upset. Did she have a nightmare again when he was gone last night? Was she cross at him? Did she have a difficult day at work? Enjolras hated that he didn't know.

"Eponine..."

But she didn't look up when he spoke to her. He knew better than to push the subject, so he stood quietly and grabbed his coat without another word. He shut the door behind him and flinched when he heard a crash; one of the chairs pushed forcefully to the floor.
He tightened his jaw, course with blonde stubble, and kept walking.

About halfway into town he saw a figure amongst the early morning fog, sort of teetering along and trying to carry what appeared to be a bucket. Enjolras made the effort to walk slowly, but the pathetic creature was moving at such a slow pace that he soon caught up.
It was a man, an old man, carrying a bucket of well water. He looked ancient and a bit senile, his beard long and grey and his clothes were worn and tattered along the edges. He reeked of alcohol and seemed to be mumbling to himself. Perhaps if he was quiet, he could pick up speed and walk by unnoticed?

No such luck.

As soon as Enjolras was about to take a sharp left and cut around the old man, he turned and spoke up.

"An' who might you be? A spy? For the King, perhaps. Well if ya are, god help ya 'cause yer the worst one I've seen. Oh, a crazy old man, you say, he won't notice me here!"

He was caught off guard by the frank way the man spoke, so he just stood still with a puzzled look on his face. His hopes of escaping the mysterious stranger now seemed lost. The old man turned and kept walking, having a noticeably difficult time with the bucket.

"I apologize, I was only..."

"Shut yer mouth, kid, an' help me with this bucket."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Help an old man out, will ye?"

Enjolras sighed. Well, he couldn't exactly say no. The man was obviously in need of some form of assistance. He cursed himself and begrudgingly caught up with the man, which didn't take long at all.

"I suppose I can help, Monsieur."

The man handed him the bucket without stopping and remarked, "Monsieur? oh that is horrendous, boy! Do I look like a Monsieur ta you?"

"Well..."

"Pay it no mind. I live over the next hill."

fortunately for Enjolras the next hill was a mere five minutes away, and the man seemed to forget that he had company. He mumbled to himself, saying things Enjolras couldn't make out completely. His face was sunken and his eyes seemed to bulge out from his head. His skin was covered in wrinkles and dark spots, and his knuckles were swollen with arthritis.

Enjolras realized now, due to the man's actions and the location of his home, that this must be the mad man the people of the town and the carriage driver was referring to. He certainly seemed mad, anyway.

The cold water sloshed around in the bucket, spilling over onto Enjolras' shoes. They reached the house soon, with Enjolras hoping to leave the water at the man's doorstep and be done with it. He set the bucket down and turned to go, but it seemed that the old man picked then to come out of his insane mumblings.

"Hold on, hold on now."

The man didn't even bother to open the door, but instead turned and sat (or tried to) on the cold stone step directly in front of his door. He clutched his chest and coughed. Then he looked up at Enjolras.

"I've seen ya walking to town, boy. Ye live the other way?"

Enjolras nodded in the affirmative.

"Do ye know who I am?"

How was he to phrase this? "Well... yes, I believe I've heard someone mention..."

"The crazy ol' man over the hill, eh? The old, crazy soldier?"

Enjolras buried his hands in his pockets, a bit ashamed. A gust of freezing cold wind blew in from uphill, tossling Enjolras' golden tresses and the old man's grey beard.

"Surprised ye didn't know me at once, boy. Any soldier can see it written on a man, that he's one, too."

Enjolras was taken aback. Soldier? But the man couldn't know, he had no way of knowing. Nobody in the town but Eponine had any knowledge of his part in the barricade.

"How did you...?"

"I said I was a soldier, boy! I can smell it on ya. The way ye walk, how ye dart your eyes around."

He didn't know what to say. He looked down at the ground, at his shoes caked with snow and mud, and wondered if the old man could see the blood on him too. When he lifted his gaze, the man was holding out a sort of flask. It was rusted and old and reeked of alcohol.

"Drink?"

"No, really, and I should be going..."

"No whiskey? Didn't your father ever teach you to not turn down a free drink, boy!? A crime, it is."

With a sharp pain in his chest Enjolras was reminded of Grantaire, sure he had said the exact same thing in the Cafe at one of the meetings. So he relented and sat on the cold stone, silently accepting the man's flask. He cringed as the burning liquid made its way down his throat and quickly handed it back. The man took a swig like it was water. He started to talk.

"Ye remind me of someone, kid. Don't get sentimental, I'm not talking about myself when I was young. He's dead, the kid you remind me of. A course, we were all kids then. Yep, dead. Has been for a long time. He had promise - a lot of good ideas... a way with words. He died fighting, with a gun in his hand. They called it a 'noble sacrifice'."

He scoffed and took another drink. Enjolras let him talk, realizing that no one must pay any mind to the crazy man over the hill, and that he didn't want to be anywhere in particular anyway. Just away from Eponine.

"Ya know what I call it? A goddamn waste. They can call it whatever... a sacrifice, martyrdom, nobility. It's just death. He can't do anything. Dieing for what ye believe in is all well and good, for about a day. What about the ones that are left? What do we do? That's what they don't tell ye, at the rallies. At the meetings. They say dieing is glory, but it's really just a bloody mess. You're dead, that's it. That's why ye have to be aware, kid. Ye can wish you're dead all ye want, but you're not. Stop wallowing in it. You're wasting it, your life. You have a gift, use it. It's the worst gift. It's a curse. You got a girl, kid? Well, now, don't you look absolutely optimistic? Whoever the hell she is, bless her. You're a goddamn stone wall, kid. It might look good on paper, but in real life it just makes people resent you. So that kid, the one that died... he would have done great things. Maybe we wouldn't have needed the barricades."

Enjolras' senses perked up at this. The barricades. His barricade.

"You know what he ended up doing? Nothing. He's dead, in the ground. And you're not. I don't care how fucked up you feel, you're feelin' something. Maybe you're feeling too much. All I know... and let me tell ya, boy, that isn't much... I owe them something."

He turned to Enjolras now, very directly, and Enjolras was surprised to see that his eyes were clear.

"I owe them something, and this isn't it."

He looked down at his flask.

"You owe them something, kid. Do you owe them a revolution? Who knows. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe people like me just over think it. We just owe them our lives. That could mean living, being normal. We need to at least try to move on, kid. If we don't, then what the hell use is it? So we weren't the ones to have a revolution. Maybe our children will. That's all we can do, kid. Not let it destroy us. It took our friends, it doesn't have to destroy us too."

He looked away from Enjolras as he took another drink. Enjolras wanted to ask why he was saying these things, why this strange man pulled him aside and spilled his soul. He only wanted to go into town and escape in his mundane work, to forget, to push it away. His heart ache for his friends, his heart ache for Eponine, it was too much. The old man would haunt his dreams tonight.

He stood up, walking away with his hands still in his pockets and the alcohol making his legs feel strange. He wanted to forget the conversation, because it made him think. It made him want to change himself, made him want to confess everything to Eponine. It made him ashamed for his penance.

He heard the old man say, more to himself than to Enjolras,

"Life is a whim. It changes day to day. Let it change you, or you're nothing but a martyr for yourself. They write your name in the history books and let it gather dust."

Enjolras kept walking, and snow was starting to fall from the sky.

** Merde is "shit" in French, according to google :)