He sat with her. He sat even after his limbs had gone numb, and he could not bring himself to move. He sat long after his tears dried and he could no longer mourn. He sat, stroking her hair, her face, no longer able to look at her. He stared up at the scarlet moon as he held her in his arms. He did not condemn himself or her. He did not curse the Nightmare. He just stared up at the moon, unable to think, to feel, wishing and wanting nothing, knowing anything more was all in vain. The wind blew through his hair and he closed his eyes, waiting, listening, smelling the scent of the flowers that came with the breeze. He remembered then of the Doll in the Dream and thought perhaps that he should return to her. He glanced back at Éponine, motionless and cold in his arms. Gently, he placed her in the garden and fixed her body to make her appear at peace. He realized how morbid she looked lathered in blood, but what more could he do? He plucked a rose from the throat of the bush and in her leather-bound hand that rested on her chest, he placed the flower. He then stroked her cheek before standing to his feet, staring down at her for a moment before glancing about for the gentle glow of the lantern.

He frowned, unable to spot it. He stepped around her, heading back towards the Musain for the lantern below, but then he stopped and remembered. There was a secret he needed to uncover. He thought it would be revealed to him as his deaths against his friends had done. But this time, perhaps, it was something he needed to uncover. Abandoning his weapons and the woman in the garden, he decided to start in the three-walled room and went back to Éponine's throne. The seat of the chair was bloodied, he noticed, and the pool of blood beneath remained wet and fresh. He did not understand how it hadn't dried and simply assumed it was a trick of the Nightmare. He walked back behind the chair and stared at the large clock window. He noticed then that he hadn't heard the chiming of the bells since he returned atop the Musain what felt like ages ago. Nonetheless, as he stared at the window, his eyes followed the line of a glass-embedded crack down between the hands and to the bottom of the window. His eyes continued down to rest upon a box sitting quietly atop six solemn steps.

His brow furrowed, bemused by the steps and the box he hadn't seen before. He walked up them and stood before the tiny box. The box, the box, the box—his eyes widened and heart hammered, bile churning in his stomach and up his esophagus. The little box was a coffin, a coffin for an infant, and upon it rested a single wilted sunflower.

His head ached as if it were to split. He gasped from the pain, sickened and dry heaved as devastating emotions clasped at his heart and mind. He felt despair that clutched his throat and meant to swallow him, rage that burned beneath his skin, terror that froze him so that any touch would shatter him. He'd rather the bite of a blade than this, death and death again than the disease of emotion that pained him just as greatly as when he plunged the sword through dear Éponine.

The world seemed to shake beneath him as if all were beginning to collapse to ruin. Perhaps his mind meant to disorientate him as his feelings were to destroy him. The light of the moon overtook the window, enveloped the garden, distorted the crumbling hall, and Enjolras thought he'd gone blind by the ruby moonlight. It was all about him, nothing but red light, and somehow, it managed to ease his qualms despite the tears that welled in his eyes.

"Enjolras…" came a calm, kind voice.

He knew that voice and he turned within the red, looking for the source.

"Éponine," he whispered back, desperate.

He saw her red silhouette, and he ran to her, unable to keep up with his feet. He embraced her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. Tears dripped from his eyes as he clasped her, feeling her warmth, the soft fabric of her dress, of her skin, of her hair. And then the lovely sent of her turned rancid, like rot and Enjolras looked into her face only to see her smile twist and warp. Éponine began to bleed suddenly from an unknown source, until that was all she was. She melted in his arms, her physical form becoming blood and a pool at his feet. But before he could feel such mortification, a scream of pain echoed through the crimson light.

Enjolras turned toward the source and the walls of red faded away like sunlight cutting through mist. He stood within a darkened room that smelled of musk, chemicals, and blood. He recognized the room as one of the blood clinic. But this wasn't of the Nightmare, no, he had been here in his Paris. He remembered it as only a few days before his revolution. Enjolras heard a sudden cry, and he turned to see his beloved Éponine Thénardier lying on a bed. Her pale skin looked nearly green in the dim candlelight, and she was caked in sweat that dampened her hair. He went to her and took his seat beside her. He grasped her hand and saw how dark the rings were under her eyes. Her lips matched the very color.

"Éponine?"

She merely gasped and wheezed, her eyes open only to the ceiling as if she hadn't heard him, as if she didn't know he was there. Her chest steadily rose and sunk until she shut her eyes, her chest now heaving rapidly. A hard line formed at her brow, her face contorting, and she groaned out in pain.

"Éppie?" He began to panic as her groans became a screams.

It was then he saw the mound of her belly, swollen and pregnant with child. Blood coated her hospital gown and the linen of her bed sheets. It was not joy that overwhelmed him as it should to know that it was Éponine carrying and birthing his child. No, something was not right. She looked to be in a delirium, huffing and panting before screaming again. Was she sick? Was the baby? He couldn't begin to question as a nurse came with rags, scissors, and a bucket of water. The doctor followed suit with a vial full of blood and before Enjolras could speak, the doctor silenced him.

"Monsieur, you are to leave immediately."

"I cannot leave her, you cannot make me." Enjolras protested, clasping her hand with both of his.

"If you do not leave we will not be able to treat her properly," returned the nurse tersely.

Enjolras did not know how he had been pried from Éponine's side, only to be carried off by two strong hands at his upper arms. He turned to see over his shoulder dear Éponine moaning, her head lolling to the side from exhaustion. She twisted and withered, her eyes closed to the world, to him. His heart broke as she called for him.

The blood clinic faded in his mind, his Éponine returning to him as a memory, and Enjolras now stood again within that ruins of the hall just before the little coffin. His limbs had gone numb, his throat dry, and his head throbbed. His fingers shook, so much so that even as he held them, the rest of his body shook in response. He hadn't the fondest idea what to do now. His child lay at his feet, his lover in the garden mere steps away.

"Enjolras."

Hearing the voice broke him. Tears streaked his cheeks, his voice choking in his throat, and slowly, he turned to see the Doll standing at the base of the stairs.

"The Dream and the Nightmare are unraveling," she said.

He pulled himself away from the coffin and listened to the heavy steps he made as he walked down the steps to reach her.

"My child had died in her womb." Enjolras mumbled, the words like acid on his tongue. "They pulled the baby from her, a little girl, and I didn't even get to see her. I don't know what they did with her tiny body. I don't know…"

He stared into the dark eyes of the Doll who only looked back with pity.

"Ép-Éponine had lost too much blood. I let them administer the blood to her. I thought it would save her…" He trailed off, remembering the painful moment the blood doctor told him that his darling Éponine died. "They told me she was getting better, that she would live. But they would not let me see her, fearing her health would decline. I had to trust their words—I shouldn't have! I should have gone to see her! My Éponine…"

The Doll touched his arm, an attempt at comfort. Enjolras glanced at the hand that touched him, staring at the porcelain fingers.

"I do not know if she would have survived without it, but I know now that the blood served only to seal her fate. This was the secret that I could not handle." He said grimly, "I did not plunge the needle, but I had a hand in it regardless. This is why I was so eager to die at the barricade. And instead of dying I went mad."

The Doll lifted her hand and placed her palm on his cheek, and Enjolras looked into her eyes as she did his. "You could not have been allowed to forget her. You succumbed to madness, but your mind would not allow you to forget."

"So my mind more tortured me into remembering?" He replied cynically.

She dropped her hand. "Losing the memory her, of your friends, of the life you built, would mean you have lost yourself as well."

Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes a moment before opening them again. "What am I to do now? Shall I wake?"

"The transfusion is nearly complete," said the Doll. "I may not be her, not completely but long have I loved you, dear Enjolras. If you stay here, with me, I can love you as long as the night lasts. But I cannot make you forgot all that you have learned here. Or, if you so wish it, you can awaken and return to your Paris."

Enjolras considered her words, allowing them to weigh heavily on his mind. And then he asked, "Will I live or die after I awaken?"

"That choice is yours," she replied sullenly.

He glanced over at Éponine that had remained in the garden. In his Paris, she was dead and their child was dead. In the Musain, his friends lay dead as he knew they were in his Paris. There was nothing left for him there. He could live with his grief forever in this nightmare of a dream, and the Doll would be there with him as long as the night lasts. Perhaps that meant eternity. He did not know. It was tempting, the chance to live with her, perhaps forever, but she was not his Éponine and he could never replace her.

"Éponine—" Enjolras began but it was her smile that stilled his voice.

There was melancholy within the curl of her lips, in the gleam of her obsidian eyes. "I know, mon coeur. All my love cannot replace her nor the child or your friends. Though dearly I would love you, and though it saddens me to part from you, I am gladdened by your choice. You have endured so much, and the night must end."

He could not bring himself to return a smile, feeling his heart break again. He was losing her again, his companion throughout the long night, and he did not know what to say for himself nor for her. He simply took her hand, brushing his fingers along her knuckles before raising her hand to his lips. He kissed it tenderly before looking into her eyes. He was ready, this time he was certain.

The Doll smiled at him again, staring into the blue of his eyes. She leaned in slowly, closing her eyes as she pressed her soft lips to his. Enjolras kissed her back, grazing his lips against hers, and he felt himself turn cold. His insides tingled, his mind dizzy, but neither he nor the Doll pulled away. Her kissed him lulled him to the dark until he could no longer feel her presence, her touch, and the world around him fell away to ashes.

In the dark, Enjolras felt at ease. The warmth of his blood was fading, his heartbeat slowing, and a soft voice was guiding him. He followed the voice, it growing louder as his body grew colder. The voice invited him, down his throat and through his limbs it overcame him like a song. In the briefest moment, he saw the woman who claimed the voice. Éponine, but he could not be sure if he spoke her name allowed. Light enveloped her, a light so warm and so gentle and so blissful it nearly blinded him. But he went to her still, reaching for her in the dark, growing colder and colder, but he fought it still until he reached her, touched her hand and the light faded to reveal her and infant in her arms.

"He's dead," said a man.

"It's a shame." The minister replied, "I thought for certain he would live. He seemed so eager for it. But then his body began to reject the transfusion."

"Perhaps, in his unconscious, he could no longer fight death."

"Or, perhaps," the minister said thoughtfully, "he wanted it."

"Will the undertaker come for him?"

The blood doctor nodded, pulling the thin white sheet over Enjolras's face. "Perhaps they'll bury him beside the woman and child. Mercy and a blessing, the poor soul," he thought.

Daylight dusted the morning mist, kissing the newly sprouted headstones of the Paris graveyard. Flowers of red, white, and yellow lay upon the fresh earth, a greeting and a parting to those beneath. Roots settled beneath the earth, melding and twisting and scraping underneath, wrapping and cradling three coffins, and in the distance, bells sang out for all of Paris to hear. It was a dream and nothing more.

The End