Author Note: Welcome to the eleventh chapter of In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You. Thank you for reading.
This chapter is, again, very NSFW. You have been warned and/or helpfully informed.
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.
Chapter Eleven: She Who Crowns a King
"So is Joly the friend of yours who's a god of war?"
They're tangled together in her bed, her arms wrapped tight around his waist as she nuzzles his shoulder contentedly, the late morning sunlight streaming through her windows.
He runs his hand over her bare back, pulling her a little closer and smiling. "No, Joly's a god of illness. You're thinking of Bahorel. He and Courfeyrac are the gods of war."
He's spent the last two hours or so telling her stories about his childhood and his life before coming here. She'd paid rapt attention, even sharing a few stories of her own, the two of them comparing how the world above had changed in her absence. She has a particular curiosity about his friends and siblings, and he is currently obliging her, letting her test what she's learned about them.
She blinks a little and frowns. "Hmm. Strange to think that there are gods of war I haven't met; Azelma always used to bring new ones down with her when—"
She cuts herself off, a strange look filling her eyes.
"Azelma?" he asks.
"Inanna," she corrects herself. "You know her as Inanna."
Oh, Enjolras thinks, suddenly recognizing the look as sadness. Oh.
"Well, I would be glad that she's never brought Bahorel to visit," he says, deliberately changing the subject. "Had he been a guest here, I doubt your halls would have survived it."
She looks at him, her eyes knowing though her lips still quirk in amusement. "No? You think not?"
"I know they wouldn't have," he teases. "He and Courfeyrac once completely wrecked my parents' banquet hall, you know, and they were just past our coming-of-age."
"Oh? I have a little more faith in my architects," she says. "My halls were built to hold gods of war and chaos and death. They wouldn't fall so easily."
"Well, I suppose it's a moot point since he'll never visit here," Enjolras says, sighing.
"Mm," Éponine says noncommittally, and something about the way she's studiously avoiding his eyes rouses his curiosity.
"What?" he says, suspicious.
"Nothing," she says, shaking her head. "So, Bahorel and Courfeyrac were given war, but Joly was tasked with sickness, like you were assigned plague?" This time it's her that changes the subject, but Enjolras decided to let it pass—for now.
"Not quite. Joly and Bahorel were assigned their posts, yes, but I chose plague," he answers.
She sits up, astonished. "You chose plague?"
"Yes," he says, frowning. "You didn't know that?"
"No. I assumed—" She cuts herself off, tilting her head and staring at him. "Gods rarely choose to hold allegiance to me, and most of those suited to be a god of death have their office forced on them. I thought you were one of them."
"Well, I'm not," he says, a little insulted.
"But why? Why choose plague?" she persists.
He sighs. "Because gods of death are those closest to humans when they suffer the most. I wanted…" He trails off, unsure of how to explain himself.
A touch to his shoulder brings his gaze back to hers. "You wanted to help them," she says, understanding. "To make their pain a little easier to bear, even if you were the one delivering the cause of it."
He nodded, and she lies back down, moving her hand to cup his face. "How much kinder you are than I," she said, tracing his cheekbones. "I never would have chosen death."
Enjolras remembers the long-ago conversation with Gilgamesh, how the other man had said that Éponine hadn't had a choice in her station. "What did you want to be?" he asks, curious, then hastily backtracks. "I mean, you don't have to answer—"
"No, it's fine," she says, running her hand through his hair. She grins a little, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I wanted to be the goddess of night," she admits.
"Of night?" he says, surprise plain on his face. That would have placed her far lower on the gods' hierarchy than the place she currently occupied—it was a little odd to think of her as anything other than a queen of her own realm.
Her grin widens, and this time her eyes smile, too. "Funny, I know. But, well, I always loved the sky at night—how beautiful it was, how sunset would turn it deep reds and oranges that would bleed into darker purples and blues, until finally it was pitch-black, except for the stars. No moon, of course—your sister hadn't been born yet."
She sighs wistfully. "If I'd been a goddess of night, I would have been a sky deity like my father. I thought it would let me stay close to him and my mother and sister. Things didn't work out that way, though."
"What happened?" he asks.
She shrugs, expression quietly pensive. "Someone had to rule Erkalla, and only a child of Anu would have strong enough. I was better suited to it than—than Azelma was, so when Father offered me the realm, I said yes." She smiles again. "I like to think I've done a good job of it, though I know certain people disagree."
He blushes. "I said I was wrong about that," he protests.
"I know," she says, chuckling as she kisses him. "Doesn't mean I'll let you forget it, though."
He would say more, but she's moving over him, and he recognizes the look in her eyes.
Any arguments he has are lost as he loses himself in her, in them together, in the pleasure that takes them both.
After lying with her, they talk again for some times, but eventually Enjolras gets an unreadable look in his eyes and rises from the bed, gesturing her to come with him.
He seats himself down in one of her armchairs, and grasps her hand when she moves to sit across from him, tugging her so she falls into his lap instead. From there, he moves his lips against hers in slow, easy patterns, his hands tracing all over her body until she's moaning in gratification.
"Open your eyes," he eventually commands her, and she does, lifting lids heavy with pleasure to stare somewhat unseeingly in front of her. She doesn't know why he asks her to do this—there's nothing on the table before them except a few scrolls, the game board, and an hourglass whose sand has nearly run out—
Oh, she thinks, shuddering against him. Oh, earth and air, he couldn't be serious, he couldn't actually have been keeping track.
The curve of his smile against her neck suggests he has, however, and his next words confirm it: "One: on my knees, using my mouth. Two: in this chair, using my fingers. Three: on that couch over there, letting you ride my cock. Four: also on the couch, that time using my mouth again."
"Enjolras," she says, her voice coming out in a gasp, her nails digging deep into the polished wood of the armrests, her back arching so that the only thing keeping her in the chair is his hand on her waist, holding her to him. The other, of course, is still toying with her clit, rubbing her in all the right ways, and between his fingers and his words, she's on the verge of shattering completely.
He continues as if she hadn't said anything at all. "Five: in bed, taking you from behind, after you asked for it so politely." The hand between her legs moves to palm her breast instead, and she keens from the loss of contact.
"Please, Enjolras, please," she begs, nearly too far gone to care that she's lost this game of theirs completely. Nearly.
"Yes, just like that, actually," he says a tad smugly, and she lifts a hand from its death-grip on the chair to dig her nails into his flesh instead, but he takes it in his and brings it back down to her core, using her own fingers to manipulate her, and she has to bite back a sob at how good it feels.
"Six: also in bed, me on top. Seven: still in bed, you on top, so it was fast and rough," he says, voice going low and husky as he moves their fingers in quick, torturous circles. "Eight was in your bathing chambers, and so was nine, and ten was against the wall. Eleven was on the floor, using my mouth and fingers—" He thrusts one of those fingers inside her, and she moans, writhing against him. "—but we made it back to the bed for twelve. I liked twelve; you let me take my time with it, and you were so beautiful, just hovering on the edge of release, with your eyes dark and your skin flushed and every inch of you trembling as I touched you."
She whimpers. Sweet chaos, his words—he's always been a fiery speaker, a passionate orator, but she's never, ever had a lover before who could make her feel as if he was making love to her with his voice alone. "Damn you," she spits out, screwing her eyes shut tight.
He kisses her shoulder, then the spot where the line of her neck meets the edge of her jaw, and then finally the corner of her mouth. "Then we went to sleep, and you were wrapped around me, just like always. Have I told you yet how much I like that? I swear you cut off my circulation sometimes, but it's a fair enough trade to go to sleep with your heartbeat pressed to my back."
Her heartbeat is thundering like a storm right now and she knows he can feel it right against the palm of his hand that he's using to keep her pressed close to him.
"Thirteen was good, too—I like making love in the mornings, when the sun's shining through your windows, and you stretch yourself over me so I can see all of you. You came with a sigh that time, easy and gentle. Fourteen was the complete opposite—you screamed my name instead."
She bites down hard on her lip to keep from screaming now. She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.
"Fifteen…well, we're on fifteen at the moment," he says, flicking his thumb hard over her clit, and she's so, so close, just a little more. She arches her hips up against him and places one hand over her mouth to keep herself from begging.
"So," he asks, "do you want to come for me? Or would you rather I lose our little wager? Your choice, my lady."
"I hate you," she says, and from the way his fingers start moving faster against her, she knows he's correctly interpreted what she wants.
"As you wish," he replies, and she would say something caustic and scathing if she wasn't too busy crying out in ecstasy as he brings her over the edge, her release tearing violently through her.
Afterwards, she lies sprawled in a boneless, pliant heap across his lap, limbs heavy with satisfaction and eyes closed in mild exhaustion. Enjolras presses a kiss to her cheek as he gathers her up against him, smoothing her hair away from her sweat-dampened face.
She forces herself to stir, attempting to sit up.
"Where are you going?" he asks, and she's definitely not imagining the note of smug amusement in his voice.
"Nowhere," she replies a tad crossly. She can feel his erection pressing against the curve of her ass, and after that performance, taking care of him is the least she can do. She shifts so that she's facing him, straddling him, and opens her legs invitingly.
He kisses her once and then pulls back. "You're tired," he says.
"And whose fault is that?" She rolls her eyes. "I'm fine," she insists, pressing her breasts to against his torso and taking a distinct pleasure in the way his eyes darken with lust. She kisses his jaw, feeling the muscles clench underneath her lips as he swallows hard.
"Take me to bed," she murmurs.
And he does, scooping her up and carrying her there with one arm hooked under her knees and the other around her shoulders, while hers wrap tight around his neck.
Once they get there, however, he pulls the covers over her and moves away. "Go to sleep," he says. "The festivals start tonight and you need your rest."
She frowns at him. "I'm fi—" she attempts to say, a yawn interrupting her midway through the sentence, and he grins cheekily at her.
"Alright," she mutters. "Maybe I am a little tired."
He chuckles, and she takes the opportunity to throw the sheets off, leaving her body bare.
His eyes track the movement before darting back to her face. "What are you doing?"
"Touch yourself," she says huskily. "Look at me and touch yourself. I want to see."
"Éponine—" he says warningly.
"What? This doesn't require any work at all on my part, and I swear I'll go to sleep afterwards." She pillows her head on one arm, keeping her eyes on his.
He licks his lips and swallows before slowly moving a hand to fist around his erection, sliding it up and down as she watches. His gaze travels over her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the lean lines of her legs, but he always, always comes back to her face, staring at her features with naked desire and that-something-else she doesn't want to name.
"Did you ever touch yourself and think of me? Before we became lovers?" she asks to distract herself as his breathing quickens and his hips begin to jerk uncontrollably.
"Yes," he groans. "All the time."
"Just like this?"
"Just like this," he affirms.
"Good," she says, "because I used to do the same and think of you."
His eyes clench tight and his mouth opens wide on a soundless cry as he comes at her words, and she thinks she's seen few things as beautiful as his pleasure.
He cleans himself up, a blush staining his cheeks a mortified red as he avoids her eyes, and she feels a rush of affection at his continued shyness. He likes touching her and kissing her and pleasing her, but letting her do the same to him—or worse, letting her watch as he pleases himself—still embarrasses him a little.
Still, he comes to rest beside her obediently enough when she stretches out her arm, and she wraps her body around his, closing her eyes and finally letting herself sleep, content with the knowledge that he is right there dreaming alongside her.
When she wakes, he is gone, and she knows he left to prepare for the week-long festivals, the end of the year come at long last, winter giving way to spring—but before the season of death breathes its last, Erkalla's citizens would revel in it one last time.
And their queen would celebrate with them, and do it in style.
So she moves to the carved cedar chests that hold her clothes and begins dressing herself for the occasion.
And if the dress she happens to pick is red…well, her people know she is fond of the color. What does it matter that it is her lover's favorite, too?
Still, she slips on the finely woven cloth and smiles, imagining the look in his eyes when he first sees her, and knowing that he won't be able to look away.
Enjolras stands with the Lesser Councils as they wait with the other gods and demons in the great hall, anticipation hanging in the air, the energy high and barely leashed, the usually solemn denizens of the Underworld abandoning seriousness in favor of celebration.
Beside him, Gilgamesh grins, eyes bright with humor. "Here's to winter's death," he says, nudging him with his shoulder.
Enjolras would reply, but at that moment, a gong sounds and the doors to the hall open slowly, a figure dressed in bold, passionate red striding between them, her head held high.
A jeweled crown rests on her brow, and strings of agates and pearls adorn her neck, with rings of lapis lazuli and jasper on her fingers, and carnelian stones hanging from her ears. Gold and silver bangles grace her wrists and ankles, but he spies a wooden bracelet or two, as well, and his heart clenches, knowing she's chosen to wear the things he's made for her.
Enjolras can't take his eyes off her, can only stare as she walks toward her throne, captivated by her beauty.
He's so captivated, in fact, that he doesn't notice that once again everyone has fallen to their knees except for him, realizing it only when she stops to stand before him, a smirk on her face.
"Still haven't learned your lesson, little one?" she says, lifting her chin in challenge.
Keeping his eyes on hers, Enjolras dips his head in a nod of acknowledgement. "Apparently not, my lady."
She throws her head back and laughs, and the whole room seems to brighten, smiles appearing on her subjects' faces as they behold her joy. Éponine waves a hand, signaling the others to rise, then she takes hold of Enjolras's arm and pulls him with her.
He goes with her willingly, conscious of the murmurs that follow in their wake, the speculative gleam in the eyes that follow them as they walk to her throne.
When they get there, she stays on her feet and gestures for him to stand on her right side. Grantaire sits in his spot of honor a few feet away, and earlier Enjolras saw Combeferre and Gavroche to the left of the throne.
He is the only one in the whole room on the dais with her, and he knows it means something to the people of Erkalla that she would raise him so high and honor him so openly, but he's not certain what.
He doesn't have time to wonder long, however, because Éponine begins speaking, her voice echoing with power to reverberate through the very bones of the Underworld, the ground trembling beneath their feet in response to her words.
"My people," she says, "the year draws to a close at long last—the conclusion of winter, the last days, the end of the end is upon us. Death comes, and life shall soon begin—so the cycle goes. But tonight, and every night until this year breathes its last, we feast! We dance, we sing, we glory in death, in chaos! We glory in our true natures!"
She lifts her arms high and shouts, "My people! Let the celebration begin!"
And the whole Underworld raises their voices in reply, wildly exultant.
Most of the week passes by in a blur, the revelry starting at the crack of dawn and continuing well into the night, the time filled with games and feasts and dances and songs.
It seems to him that Éponine is always at the heart of it all, moving as easily amongst the oldest and most terrible of the gods of death as she does amongst the humblest and quietest of human spirits, each of their names falling from her tongue as she greets every face with a wide smile.
He would know, because contrary to her teasing words a few days before, he's right there with her, rarely leaving her side, taking quiet pleasure in the obvious joy she shows.
He's watching her peruse a jeweler's stall (from the way her glance keeps darting onwards him, he's resigned himself to finding yet another armband by his bedside in a few days' time), when Gavroche pops up unexpectedly beside him.
"I've never seen her this happy," he says idly, not even looking at Enjolras, simply watching Éponine as well. "Not even before Azelma betrayed her. You're good for her."
Enjolras turns to face the god of cattle. "Thank you," he says quietly, knowing he's passed some sort of test.
Gavroche nods. "You're welcome. Just—stay good for her. Don't hurt her, because if you do—" and here the other godling grins, the expression fierce and cruel and terrible, "— you'll have me to answer to."
Enjolras grins back, just as fiercely. "Fair enough."
Gavroche finally looks at him, and then laughs. "Knew there was a reason I liked you."
He notices that she keeps to the sidelines when the music starts and the dancing begins. She sits down, cross-legged, chin in her hands, and simply watches, eyes bright and mouth smiling and fingers tapping the rhythm of the drums against her cheekbones.
Watching her, he's reminded of himself in the realm of the gods, purposely keeping himself apart because he feels the slightest bit out of place—not uncomfortable, not really, but more like he didn't quite belong.
He feels like he belongs here, and though he, too, prefers to stand to the side, even he's joined the circle a few times.
Never Éponine, though—she never dances, and after a day or two of this, he wonders if it's because no one asks her to.
So when the drums start to pound and the crowd's voices lift in song and their feet strike the ground in unison, he walks over to where she's sitting and extends his hand.
"Dance with me?" he asks quietly.
She looks up at him in surprise, and he can see her hesitate for a second or two before placing her hand in his own. "Sure you won't regret this, little one? I'm not exactly the best dancer," she warns.
"I won't," he promises, and he doesn't.
She's a liar, as it turns out; he doesn't know whose standards she's using, because he's never seen a more graceful dancer in his life. She moves fluidly, gracefully against him, her hands locked tight around his neck as she sways her hips and stomps her feet, and she keeps her eyes on his the whole time.
She dances with him, and his heart pounds in his chest, because it feels like he's been waiting for the right partner all his life, and suddenly she's right here in his arms.
She dances with others after that, Gavroche laughingly stealing her from him and swinging her around the circle, but she always comes back to him, and at the end of the night she pulls him close and murmurs in his ear, "Thank you. I haven't danced like this in centuries."
There's a story behind that, he thinks, a story that probably has to do with her sister, but right now her eyes are the same shining dark of the night sky lit by stars, and he has no wish to see them cloud with sadness, so he merely inclines his head and replies, "You're welcome."
He doesn't object when she pulls him further down and kisses him, her smile curving soft against his lips.
He comes to her chambers on the second to last day of the festivals, dressed in all his finery the way she'd asked—he wears black robes made of the finest woven cloth, silver leaves in his hair and golden bands encircling his wrists, and he looks far grander than he ever did in the world above. Despite being the son of two of the most powerful gods of the pantheon, it appears that being the lover of She Who Rules Alone entitles him to even more luxury than that.
He knocks before quietly entering, ready to escort her to tonight's festivities, and pauses when he sees her.
Éponine is standing at the window, her arms crossed, gazing out over her realm in silence. Her hair is down, loosely flowing over her shoulders and nearly reaching her hips in ash-black waves that look beautiful against the deep green dress she wears. A quiet, pensive look is on her face, contrasting with her wild, vibrant appearance—she could almost be a goddess of spring in that outfit, save the heavy aura of deathly power that surrounds her.
He is almost loathe to draw her attention and mar the picture she makes standing there, but he knows she wouldn't want to be late, so he clears his throat.
She turns from the window and smiles the second she catches sight of him, and his heart stops in his chest.
He's been here before, this exact moment—he's lived it already. In his very first dream of her, just a few days after his coming-of-age, he'd stood in an unfamiliar room—this room, her room he recognizes now—and stared as a beautiful stranger walked towards him, an indefinable look in her eyes.
She walks toward him now, that same expression in her gaze, and he knows even before she reaches him what she will do:
She takes his hands and brings them to her lips, presses a kiss to each palm before looking up at him and saying, "Hello, little one. How was your day?"
In his dreams, he woke at this point.
In the here and now, he says, "I love you," the words rising unbidden to his lips, no less true for all that he didn't mean to say them.
He's never meant anything more.
"I love you," he says, finally giving name to that-something-else she's seen in his eyes.
Éponine steps back in surprise, and later she will be ashamed to admit that her first impulse was to turn and run.
She's not ready for this, not ready for him to love her, so she pulls her hands from his and says nothing at first, trying to calm her racing heart.
His face instantly falls. "I'm sorry," he says. "You don't have to—I don't expect you to—I'm happy with whatever you can give me."
She's given him her body, and she's given him her name, and she knows in her bones that she's given him her heart as well, but try as she might, the words stick in her throat and she cannot say it.
They always leave, the frightened part of her mind tells her. They always leave if you say it to them. He'll be no different. Don't risk it.
But he's turning away now, and she recognizes the look on his face, recognizes sadness and rejection because she's seen them so many times in the mirror, and his last words come back to her.
I'm happy with whatever you can give me.
She puts out a hand and urgently turns him around. "If I gave you a crown tomorrow, would you take it?"
He stares at her, confused. "A crown—like the flower crowns I've seen?"
"Yes," she says. "Made by my own hands and given to you freely—would you take it?"
Flower crowns at festivals were meant for sweethearts only, for lovers whom you loved, but here in Erkalla, according to the laws of the dead, if she gave him a crown and he took it, be it silver or gold or plain flowers, then she was crowning him in truth, naming him her equal, declaring him her consort, King of the Underworld as she was Queen.
She thought Uncle Georges might have told him what it meant before he came here, but she opens her mouth to explain anyway when he leans forward and kisses her.
"So you want me to be your sweetheart, is that it?" he says against her lips.
She nods, hoping he'll understand what she means even if she doesn't say it.
"Alright, then," he says. "I will."
The next day, she stands and waits in her great hall.
"There you are," Grantaire says, striding towards her with a cocky grin on his face, halting when he sees the look on hers. "What's wrong?" He places his glass of wine on the windowsill besides her and rests his hands on her shoulders.
She shakes her head. "Nothing's wrong—not exactly—just—" She sighs and lifts a hand, holding it palm up and moving her other hand over it until a simple crown made of brittle wood, vines, and thorns appears.
Grantaire looks down at it, brows lifting in faint shock.
"What do you think?" she asks him.
"…I'm thinking I'm going to have way too much fun calling the little twerp 'king' and watching him flinch in discomfort."
She smacks his shoulder and tries not to laugh—failing miserably, as it turns out. "So you don't think it's too soon?" she asks.
Grantaire rolls his eyes. "You've courted him for most of a year and you think that's too soon? How many of our cousins have become engaged after all of two days knowing each other?"
"Well, when you put it that way…" she said, grimacing.
"Hey," he says, placing his hand underneath her chin. "Do what makes you happy. Ferre and Gav and I will take care of anything else."
She smiles up at him. "That's what Ferre said, too."
"Yeah? What did Gav say?"
"That you owed him twenty gold coins."
Grantaire curses. "Damn it, I'd hoped he'd forgotten that bet."
This time, she doesn't even bother trying not to laugh.
"So flower crowns here in Erkalla mean something different than in the world above, right?" Enjolras asks. "I know that in the realm of the gods, usually they just mean 'I want to sleep with you,' but in the mortal realm they carry more commitment, and I'm guessing here it's even more serious? Since practically everything has more meaning here," he finishes, rolling his eyes.
Gilgamesh gives a bark of laughter. "You can definitely say that again. But yeah essentially flower crowns here are meant only for those you're married to, or those you want to marry—it's a cute way for people to publicly announce their engagements." He gives Enjolras a sideways glance. "Are you thinking of making Ereshkigal one?"
"Something like that," he says noncommittally, keeping his face serious although he wants to shout for joy.
She wants to commit to him. She wants to promise herself to him. She wants him to do the same for her, and it is all he can do not to run for her right this instant and say yes, yes to all of it, yes to everything, yes, yes, yes.
She may not have said she loved him out loud, but she says it with her eyes and her hands and the way she says his name, and now she's saying it with her actions.
He's fine with that; he doesn't need the words if she'll give him this.
Éponine stands before her people, every last deity and demon, every single spirit and soul in her realm gathered in front of her.
She raises her hands, palm up. "My own," she says, "my beloved, my treasured ones, my people. Mine as I am yours, yours as you are mine—thank you for serving me well and honorably this year, as you have served me every year since I came to my throne. May I continue to serve you half as well—"
She stops as the crowd roars in approval, lips turning up in a pleased smile, waiting for the sound to die down before continuing. "—and may the new year prove as bountiful and enriching as this one has! To Erkalla!"
"To Erkalla!" her people echo. "To Death! To Ereshkigal, our lady! To Ereshkigal, Queen of the Land Far Beneath the Heavens! To Ereshkigal, She Who Rules Alone!"
They name her thrice in the ways of the gods, and she walks into the crowd until she reaches the heart of it, where a little girl waits, a simple circlet of wood in her hands, made from the first tree cut down that year.
Éponine moves to kneel before her and bows her head, letting the little girl place the crown upon her head, feeling the mantle of power settle securely on her shoulders once more, Erkalla recognizing that the people have crowned her Queen once more.
"Thank you," she says, winking at the little girl and smiling widely as her people cheer. The girl nods once and smiles a gap-toothed smile before bowing and running back to her mother.
Éponine watches her, then stands and turns to meet Enjolras's gaze. She begins to walk towards him, not stopping until she's right in front of him.
"Nergal," she says, her voice low but infused with power so that it still reverberates through the crowd. "Son of Enlil, son of Ninlil, brother of Sin, Brother of Ninurta, god of death, Harbinger of Plague, Bringer of Oblivion."
She pauses, takes a breath, continues. "Lover of She Who Rules Alone." She raises her palms again, summoning the crown she made for him and holds it high so that all may see, ignoring the murmur of surprise that goes through the crowd.
"Will you kneel for me?" she asks him quietly.
He drops to one knee and bends his head in answer, and she places the crown on his head and makes him her consort before the eyes of her court and her people.
He is hers now and forever as she is his, bound by the laws of Erkalla.
But that night, as she leads him to her chambers, she knows it's not just the laws that bind them together, knows that she's lucky enough to have love as well.
Enjolras follows her back to her rooms, his hand in hers and his heart pounding in his chest.
The minute she shuts the door behind them, he presses her against it and kisses her deeply, tongue tangling with hers as he tries to show her everything he wants to say.
She tugs on his hair and pulls him away, and he opens his eyes to find her staring at him, eyes wide and serious and strangely vulnerable.
"You may go," she says. "You may leave now, if you wish. I will not keep you here; I give you back your freedom."
At first, he's confused, and then he's hurt and angry. Why is she telling him to leave?
And then he stops and goes over her words, listens to everything she says and figures out what she means.
If you wish, she had said.
"I choose to stay," he tells her, and he knows he said the right thing because she's practically tearing his clothes off after that, fisting her hands in his hair and holding his mouth fierce against hers, legs wrapped around his waist and heels digging into his back.
When they stumble into bed, she pulls him over her, lying back and offering herself to him, hair fanning out in a beautiful display over her pillows, the crown still upon her head, every inch of her regal and glorious.
He moves to take his crown off, but she shakes her head. "Leave it," she says, drawing him down for another kiss.
Soon he's moving inside her, urgent and wild and desperate, and he presses kisses over her face and names her. "My lady," he says, "my queen, my goddess, Death herself, She Who Rules Alone—"
"No," she moans, arching up against him. "Not alone. Not anymore." She opens her eyes and stares up at him. "Say it," she begs. "Say it again, please say it."
He knows what she wants and he gives it to her gladly.
"Éponine," he says as he thrusts into her, as he holds her gaze, as he makes love to her with his whole body and heart and soul. "Éponine, I love you."
Her eyes widen, darkening in pleasure, but she keeps them open as she comes, and she watches as he follows after, her answer in written there for him to see.
I love you, too.
The next morning finds them together in her dining hall at breakfast, satisfied smiles on their faces as Gavroche and Grantaire happily tease them, Combeferre quietly radiating approval and joy.
The god of gates leaves halfway through the meal though, excusing himself to take care of new arrivals.
"Huh," Éponine says. "They're early."
"Who's early?" Enjolras asks.
She smiles at him mischievously. "Well, a certain someone has been complaining about how I've been terribly lax, letting the gods under my jurisdiction flaunt their duties and do whatever they please—so I've decided to rectify matters a little."
He stops and stares at her. "What?"
She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Oh, it's nothing much—it's not as if I've invited everyone back to my realm just yet. It's only a god of illness, and maybe one or two gods of war." She bites into her pomegranate to try and hide her smile, but he can still see the upturned corners of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes.
"You mean—?"
"Enjolras!"
He turns around to see his brother striding through the open doors, and then he's caught up in a bone-crushing hug as Courfeyrac laughingly embraces him.
"Earth and air, would you look at that! Look at you! You look—are you eating?" Courfeyrac says the grin sliding off his face, replaced by a look of utter horror. "Oh, no, Enjolras—wait, wait, no, Cosette can fix this, she'll—"
"Cosette?" Enjolras says, surprised. "Is she here, too?"
"Yeah! We're here to rescue you!" Courfeyrac proclaims.
"What," Éponine says flatly, getting to her feet and fixing a cold glare on his brother, "do you mean by that, exactly?"
"He means we're taking our brother home with us," Cosette says, walking into the hall with her head held high, and Enjolras would be delighted if she wasn't looking at Éponine with nothing but hostility and challenge in her eyes.
"What on earth are you doing here?" Éponine demands. "I didn't invite you."
"No," his sister answers, lifting her chin stubbornly. "I invited myself. Give my brother back."
"Combeferre!" Éponine yells. "Explain this!"
The god of gates appears in the doorway, looking more harassed than Enjolras has ever seen him. "My Lady," he begins, "it appears as if—"
"My dear nephew, I'll do the explaining if you will," says a familiar voice, and Uncle Georges soon comes into view, that clever grin on his face. Marius, Bahorel, and the rest of his friends follow behind him. "Hello, there, Ereshkigal. I did say I was dropping in for a visit, didn't I? It also seems that it's doubling as a rescue mission, but I always did like to multi-task."
Enjolras looks from his family members to his lover, and can't help the sinking feeling of dread in his stomach.
Oh, no.
Endnote: Thank you very much for reading this chapter. Please review and tell me what you think. Tell me your favorite line, or what you liked best about the chapter, or what you thought I could have done better. Honestly, even just a smiley face would be nice - feedback just helps me get in the mood to write, basically. :)