Author's Note: Just a heads up, I do not know when I will be able to update this again. Lately, I've been doing a monthly update, but with the semester ending in a little over a month and schoolwork being thrown at me left and right, this might not receive another update until late May. Sorry!

As of right now, I have no intention of abandoning this story yet. I have quite a bit thought out, but writing it out might take a bit more time than I have right now.

Enjoy.

Silence.

Silence was all that came from Enjolras for two weeks. He remained wordless towards Joly, towards Corinna, towards everyone. Towards Eponine, towards Cosette, and even to Gratien, though the youngest had managed to get a few words from him on occasion.

"He will come around." Joly had told Corinna one night over tea. "He…he needs time to process it all."

"It is not as if the man has gone mute from shock, Tristan." The widow replied with a bit of an edge to her voice. "This is absolute silence, or near to it, and for goodness sake, he is putting it on the wrong people. You and I, I can understand, but Eponine, Cosette, and Graiten…it is not fair to them. They had nothing to do with it. Eponine knew what she knew because she had been there, she had seen what happened to the others, figured it might be better to hear it from someone he knew. Cosette, he barely knows, and in extension, she only knew of the Baron Pontmercy shortly before the barricades. She only knew what you told her. Gratien, the poor boy lost his father, I lost my husband, and yet that man has the g—"

"Shhh…" Joly interrupted to quiet the raising and raging voice. "I know, and Enjolras knows. The pain you feel right now, the pain Gratien feels, he feels, too, and silence…It is his way of handling it at the present. Will he do the same once Maximilienne is known to him? I cannot tell you for certain, but what I can say is, give him a few more weeks, and maybe he will be willing to listen."

"I hope you are right, monsieur." Corinna swirled the remaining liquid in her cup. "Since his mother will be the one explaining that bit of his forgotten life when she arrives in Paris next week."

"Pardon?" Joly choked on his tea briefly. "Did I hear right?"

"Enjolras will hear it from his mother, and in his current state of mind, he will likely take it better from his mother than from you or I." she explained before taking a sip from her own cup. "Especially with his behavior since he found out about the barricade."

The hypochondriac remembered well the conversation between him and Enjolras roughly two weeks prior. The latter still appeared rather shaken from his nightmare when he arrived that afternoon, with madness in his eyes and his voice as cold as the winter's chill.

Enjolras was in denial for much of the exchange, the firm belief in his mind that his unconscious thoughts were nothing but, and the words told to him only lies and construction of his imagination. He claimed the words Joly said were not the same as the ones he heard, an argument that suffered much repetition. However, when the hypochondriac asked in a rather harsh tone that was unintended, "How did you receive your wounds, the three bullets that struck you? Where did they come from?", and then he could not come up with a reason to deny it any further.

"I wish I could tell you something better than this," Joly said calmly, seated in the chair by the bed. "But I can't, I'm sorry."

"There is nothing for you to be sorry for." Enjolras' fierceness had subsided for the moment. "You were not the one who lead them there."

"You were not the reason they died." The hypochondriac knew from experience where Enjolras was heading with that statement, and he was not going to permit him to do it. Combeferre had told Joly that Enjolras blamed himself for Annette's death and there were times when he still did, and watched him do it again following Eponine's attack. "You may have lead them, yes, but they chose to follow you because they believed, we believed, what we were doing was right."

"What it right for them to die for nothing, Joly?" Enjolras questioned coldly. "Bossuet, Combeferre, they are all dead because of this foolishness."

"No." Joly shook his head. "It was not foolishness, only a battle that was lost."

After that, Enjolras had fallen silent, and did not speak to him any further.

"I can infer, then, you informed Madame Enjolras of the situation?" Joly inquired, setting the ceramic cup onto the table.

"Affirmative." Corinna replied. "I will admit that in her letter she did not seem to be fond of the situation, but she would rather have her son alive with forgotten memories over him lying in the ground."

The hypochondriac responded with curt nod, the expression on his face not hiding the sadness and the grief from the events weeks ago. After a bit of silence, he asked, "Have you received any word from Musichetta?"

The widow shook her head. "No, and it worries me as much as it does you. As of late, I've just been thinking of her being alive and well somewhere that is not here. Maybe in Paris, England, America…It is as if thinking of her being dead will make it true, and if she is actually alive somewhere…You do understand, do you not?"

"I…I suppose I do." Joly answered rather quietly, staring down at the empty cup. "I only wish…if she really is out there somewhere, that I could tell her I was still alive…"

Corinna took a deep breath. "I think a part of her believes you are, just as we believe she is. In fact, if I know anything about my sister, she is probably out there looking for you as much as you are looking for her."

"I want to think that, Corinna, I honestly do," he glanced towards the front window, watching the raindrops fall against the glass. "And I certainly do not want to give up on her, but…I would hate to be a negative thinker, but if she survived, wouldn't she have come here, especially if she knew…believed, Rainier and I were dead?"

"Perhaps, but considering how she handled father's death, she more likely went and hid over seeking consulation." She reached across the table, placing a gentle hand on top of his. "You'll find her, I guarantee it."

The tapping of feet against the floor. The rustle of clothing when one of them moved. The faint creaking of the floorboards in the hall. The light patter of raindrops on the windowsill.

All evening, that was all Eponine had heard, and it was driving her mad.

Had she attempted conversations? Of course she had, more times than she could count on the fingers on her hand, only to receive a blank stare or a glare in return, from him, anyway. At least Gratien was willing enough to speak with her, despite the two of them nearly being strangers.

"Your nephew is more talkative than you." she attempted once more as she began to sew a patch onto one of Corinna's old aprons. "The boy has not yet ten years under his cap, but he speaks as if he's almost full grown! Quite an orator he'll be one day, if he keeps up like this."

Eponine looked up to see if Enjolras had made any sort of gesture in response. A twitch of the nose, his eyes squinting at the pages of the book in front of him, things that he only seemed to do when she opened her mouth. Alas, the man might as well have been a statue at this point—as still as one and as silent as one.

"Is that a common trait from your side of the family?" she asked, her voice meant to be taunting him. "Or is it from his father's? I suppose it doesn't matter either way, as it could simply be a natural gift for one to have a way with words."

She watched once more for anything that could resemble a response. For a moment, she thought she saw his eyes flicker in her direction, but it was too quick for her to know for certain.

"He is quite smart for one his age, too, isn't he?" she took a chance to continue. "Can name several species of moths in latin, latin! Meanwhile, I am lucky to name two using their common name."

She heard a quiet "hmph" in response, and she could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth turn upwards in a brief smile. Just as quickly, it was gone.

The turning of pages in a book. The shifting of positions. The muffled voices of Joly and Corinna in the other room. The faint rustling noise made as two pieces of fabric were stitched together. Such sounds continued on through the evening, the not-so empty room feeling almost deserted. Not a chance of a conversation being carried, not tonight, not between them.

Her eyes drifted towards the window, revealing the stormy weather of the night outside. No wonder Joly's still here, she thought during a short pause in her sewing. She knew so very few people actually liked the rain, remaining instead to keep dry while nature drenched the Parisian streets. Those who did not have the luxury of having a roof over their heads, such as herself before Corinna asked her to stay, more so tolerated it over actually liking it.

More than once, she considered leaving, and still did. She missed freely roaming the streets, as well as the adventures it sometimes brought. She sometimes yearned for the game of chance she found herself in day-to-day, wondering if she would make it through the day, live to see tomorrow. She felt cooped up in Corinna's home, specifically the room she was sitting in, having rarely left it except when necessary, and sharing the room with a man she barely knew, who took the risk to help others while apparently not taking into consideration who he would be leaving behind.

Yet, she still stayed.

Maybe it was because she was glad to have a roof over her head and wanted to enjoy it while she still could. Maybe it was that maternal instinct she has heard women on the street talk about when they were with child, the instinct that tells them to seek a nest, a safe place, for when the child was born. Maybe it was that for once, for the longest time in her life, she was surrounded by people who are actually concerned about her…some more than others.

"Monsieur Enjolras?"

She heard his book close before he set it aside on the night table. Even if the man was not speaking to her, she at least had his attention; his eyes, though expressionless, focused in her direction.

"Am I a burden?"

His eyebrows furrowed, as if to say, "What would give you that impression?", then he shook his head in reply.

"Maybe not to you, but does society think of me as one, and if not me as an individual, but my class as a whole?" In truth, she had no idea where the question was coming from. Perhaps just out of the blue, maybe somehow it simply came from the back of her mind. "We live in squalor. We are the reason the streets are considered filthy, that our kind turned it into dirt. Those of us who live on the streets are no cleaner than the rats in the sewers."

"That is not your fault, Citizeness, but that of higher society." She heard him say, one of the few times he had spoken in the past two weeks, the first it had been directly towards her. Yet, she ignored such a development. "Had things been different, perhaps…perhaps you would not have to think of it in that way."

Eponine frowned at him. "Perhaps not, but if things ever do change, my people will be forgotten—we always are. Once I am told to leave and you are ready to journey home, who is to say you won't forget I exist? What's to stop Corinna, Gratien, Joly, and Cosette from forgetting about me?"

"Who is to say they will?"

"It is not as much a matter of saying as it is a matter of experience." Eponine replied, setting the sewing materials aside. "My own parents forgot about me, and if they forgot about me, how is it wrong to say others won't?"

Inevitably, the silence returned, and the remains of the leader in red, once a grand orator with memories lost, stared at her with blank expression. She could not tell if he was searching for the words, or if there were none.

"Then those 'others' were the wrong people to be around, if they were to treat you like that."

She looked up at him, expecting something more, which then allowed quietness to fill the room with the faint sound of raindrops on the window's glass once again. Slowly and quietly, she rose from the chair and laid down on the unoccupied side of the bed.

She kept still for what felt like hours, listening to the creaking of the walls and to the tap-tap-tap of the rain outside. She had heard the front door open and close, signaling Joly's exit into the watery night. She had heard a faint melody as Corinna had put Gratien to bed, before once again hearing who she assumed was Maximillienne, asking about her father once more. She heard the door across the hall close with a soft sound of the wooden door coming into contact with its frame, followed by footsteps heading towards the end of the hall and a closing door.

Meanwhile, the man next to her remained silent.

There had been the shifting covers as he, too, decided to retire for the night. Before that, there had been the turning of pages from whatever book he had been reading that night. Now, there was the faint sound of him breathing while he slept, as she watched his chest rise and fall. This man, had she only known him as a stranger over the bit of familiarity she had with him as of late, she would not thought of him as a man that was capable of being terrible. Charming, yes, but not terrible. He looked…peaceful.

She recalled hearing the fierceness and the passion of his words before the barricade, to the masses of people before the death of Lamarque. How certain he sounded that Paris could change it given the chance, how it would be under a republic over the current government that might as well have been a monarchy in everything but name.

She remembered watching the stunned silence from him after Marius fell, almost as if he had not expected death to fall upon anyone. She remembered how in the midst of her grief for the fallen man, she had said under her breath, "You cannot fight a war and not expect death to follow." It was not long after that that Joly had escorted her from the barricade.

She thought back to the day the barricade fell, his barely-breathing form dangling from the Musain's window. It took much strength for her to pull him up, and dragging him away from the scene was difficult enough to do without being caught, on top of the fact he was dead weight. She recalled the night she was almost certain he was going to die, where his voice had gone silent due to either weakness or shock, perhaps a combination of the two. He had trusted her so easily, as if she were no stranger to him at all, but the following morning, his behavior changed. He did not trust her at all, not long enough for her to search for someone to help, did not trust her enough to come back.

How could either sides of the man be the same person lying beside her now?