Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables.
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With heavy feet and an even heavier heart, Eponine found herself wondering past the river seine.
Tears had dried on her face, staining her cheeks. How she was dry, cold, and frightened.
As she moved along the side of the bridge, she could barely bring herself to even breath. Something had been knocked out of her, a confidence, a hope. Everything she had held previously in the past hour or so had been completely destroyed, and she found herself once again without a home, and without a friend.
Stopping to rest her weary legs, for she had been walking for a while now, she leaned against the stone of the bridge.
Her stomach ached, knowing that this was where she and Enjolras had embarked on their friendship. He had been so gentle, so unassuming, that it almost made her laugh. But the Enjolras she now knew was cold, rigid, and unwavering in his decisions.
She supposed she should be proud, after all, he was her work. However, it seemed a bitter blow to know that he had taken her teachings and used them against her.
He was just a scared boy, that she had made into a man.
How stupid she had been to fall for it - to fall for him.
Below, she could hear the rushing waters of the seine below her. The wind was cool enough, and the rough waters would be even icier.
Desolation now seemed too much, and the temptation was too great now.
She had considered it once before, during what may have been the pinnacle of her pathetic existence. This particular place had been known for this sort of thing, she knew. The waters below were cold and rough, and it should be a rather quick solution to her troubles.
After all, who would care, anyway? It wouldn't even make the paper. It would be just a thing that people talked about for maybe an afternoon.
Did you hear about that girl who jumped into the river?
No, who was she?
Nobody important. Just some street girl. Probably down on her luck.
Oh. So, what are we going to do this evening?
That would be it. She would cease to be a person, and would become a story, a spirit. A shadow that once roamed certain places and spoke to certain people.
A cold wind whipped around her, and Eponine shuddered.
No, she could not do this. She could not let the people around her cause her to do such stupid things. She was strong, and had endured much. It would be pathetic now to give up. Not after everything she had suffered.
Leaning against the cool stone, she sighed with dejection. She was angry. Angry and confused.
She was so sure, so certain that he just might feel something for her. He had been so kind and warm. She had felt everything for him, and had given him everything she could in a haze of admiration and adoration.
Perhaps the most frustrating part of it all, was that even after what he had done, she could not bring herself to not love him.
It still hurt her, the idea of him. The prospect of what could have been. It was still painful to consider what would happen to him tomorrow. What would happen to her Enjolras? He might die, she knew just as well. They might have all died if she were there.
If he was gone from her life, she truly believed she had nothing to live for. She had given up her home, but not with regret. It would have only been a matter of time that she would have left her family. One can only take so much.
But now she was left in the dark. She had a poor chance of surviving now, and even if she had, what good was her life for? No person would ever truly befriend her, no one would ever really love her. She was nothingness in a world of moving shadows.
Enjolras, in a short time, had become her life. The force that kept her heart beating quickly and erratically. Now he was gone, and there was nothing she could do. This was no longer a world she believed she could life in.
At least if she could fight, she might perhaps die with the knowledge that it was an honourable death.
The raging waters below suddenly seemed to elevate in her mind, and the sound grew to deafening magnitude as realisation struck upon her.
There was still a way. It was risky, and stupid, and everything in-between, but it was enough. At least this way, she could help him. She could finish what she had started.
If Enjolras were to die, then he would not be alone.
She made her choice just as distant clocks chimed, another reminder of her shortening time before it would be too late.
He might have hurt her, but she would not take that as instruction. If he wanted her to leave, then so be it. She would not be at the barricade, not as Eponine. Still, he did not have to know it was her. If she could at least be there, to watch him. To protect him. She had to do her part, not simply sit aside and wait for word of her friends' deaths.
There was little hesitation in her mind from then on.
To die for love, in one's mind, is a satisfying end.
Before the bells had stopped ringing, the bridge was clear. There was no more sign of life, for she had disappeared, taking off in the direction of someone she knew would be able to help her.
The air was thick with resolution and an unknown future. Impending battles were on their way, and the dawn of a new day was hours away.
Enjolras had left his room soon after destroying what he could in his fit of rage.
He returned to the café. Everything in his mind were swirling accusations, mindless blows of self-hatred and bitterness for his own being.
And for everything, he still could find relief in what he had done.
Eponine would be safe. She was gone from his life, and away from his risks.
He tried not to pay mind to the biting pain at the back of his mind at the concept of her leaving. How he might never again hear her laugh, or see her irritated scowl when he became overly demanding. All those were things that he had once had, but could now never have again. It was his own doing.
It was a blessing that she had ever entered his life, and a curse that he had to rid her from it for her own good.
"I might have loved you, Monsieur. But now I can only hate you."
She might have loved him. The words sent his mind blazing and his chest burning and the possibilities of what she might have meant within her speech.
No sooner than moments after she had left had he wanted to run after her. He wanted nothing more than to stop her, grab her, hold her against him and tell her all the things he wanted to say but could not understand. How he did not want her to disappear from his life, and how she made him feel so completely frustrated, amazed, and utterly happy at once.
But instead, he let her leave, knowing that her safety lay in those last moments.
His furniture had hence suffered his wrath.
Although Enjolras had attempted to hide it well, Joly quickly noticed his friend's bruising knuckles just a few moments after he had entered their back room of the café.
Enjolras marched over to the nearest table, and attempted to involve himself in a conversation taking place. Yet he was unsuccessful in his try to move in without gathering too much attention.
"Mon ami!" the young doctor exclaimed. "What happened to your hand?"
Enjolras, barely looking up from his work, grumbled, "I engaged in an attack."
"With who?"
"The wall."
Enjolras straightened himself, determined not to let the conversation lead to why he had so brutally destroyed his home, and most certainly not why he had driven Eponine away. However, he still felt the many wondering eyes of the Amis upon him, silently questioning his fierce demeanour. Of course, there was no time for emotions now. He had done what he needed to do, and now he needed to be what was necessary. A leader, a revolutionary. A man. They might die tomorrow, and he would very well go gladly in name of their cause, but until then, he must cease to be as broken as he truly felt.
"I only returned to ensure that things were running correctly. Ensure you get some sleep tonight. Do not drink yourselves to waste. Tomorrow is coming."
As he moved to the stairs, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened at the touch like a man who had been burned.
When he turned, he was met face to face with Combeferre, who's brow was creased in worry, perhaps even concern at his friend's strange behaviour.
"Enjolras," he spoke in a hushed voice. "Are you alright? If it is nerves, you have no reason to-"
Enjolras shrugged his hand away, with more force than intended. He spoke with a voice that was both dismissive and harsh. "I am not nervous, Combeferre. Mind your words, will you? Worry about what you need to do by tomorrow. Do you understand?"
Combeferre looked taken aback, and moved away from the other man with his palms out turned, as if in a gesture of understanding. For a moment, he was silent, and simply studied his face with sincere curiosity. Finally, he replied quietly, "Yes."
"Good."
He paused at the stop of the staircase, having spotted a solitary figure sitting on the corner table, surrounded by several bottles. Of course, Grantiare had been there, and he had been watching. Enjolras suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. How was it that Grantaire always made him feel so under scrutiny. He leaned over the barrier of the stairs, staring darkly into the dimly lit table.
"If you're going to leave, I suggest you do it now. Nobody has time for your antics tonight."
Grantaire, who had been watching him with an arrogant look of understanding, shrugged. "Why presume I'm leaving? I am part of this society, am I not?"
His words only deepened Enjolras' frown. Pushing himself away from the steps, he began to stalk over to the drunkard (who on this occasion, he noted to be surprisingly sober), and placed his hands firmly on the table. He leaned across to mutter into the air between them, "Listen to me, Grantaire. If you get in the way, I will not hesitate to throw you from this café myself. This is bigger than you or I. We cannot afford mistakes."
At this time, Enjolras had noted the sudden wave of silence behind him. Grantaire's eyes flickered from his to the audience behind them, and so Enjolras had no doubt that their conversation had attracted unwanted eyes.
It was at last Grantaire who seemed to break the long-lasting silence. "So, I'm a mistake, am I?"
Enjolras fell quiet. His eyes slowly dropped to the table surface, as if some invisible force were pushing his head down.
As the rest of the room watched on in deadly silence, his quiet voice seemed to break through the invisible barriers. "I did not mean it like that."
Grantaire, however, seemed only momentarily fazed. No evidence of insult or offence passed his features anymore that evening.
He simply shrugged, and mumbled, "Consider me a silent servant, Enjolras." When the young leader raised his head once more, Grantaire was smirking in his direction, a bottle raised in a salute. "At your command."
Crouched in a small, desolate corner of the tiny darkened room, Merlion Parnarde was busy with his work of tying together several pieces of loose string in order to make a rat trapper.
Outside, the rain had begun to pour, and for lack of a window, he was too getting soaked, despite being indoors. It made his job all the harder.
Peace was a rarity in a city such as Paris, and although half the city knew that tomorrow would bring war and bloodshed, the night had a certain tranquillity about it. The sky was dark and the air was heavy, and there was not much to be done but sit, wait, and hope for some tactical advantage by morning.
Whilst in the haze of deep thought, Merlion found his door being slammed open so hard it nearly shook the walls. He jumped back, dropping his strings, and banged his head against the wall.
"Ah!" he cried. He looked to the figure that had emerged from the doorway. "Eponine! Christ, what's got into you?"
Eponine hovered between the doorway, soaking from the rain and trembling with resolution. She had the eyes of a mad-woman, wide and frantic with determination and mindless disregard for what she was about to do.
Water pooled at her feet upon the already stained wood.
"Merlion," she breathed, her voice unnervingly calm. "…I need your help."