The winter became spring, and Enjolras began giving his speeches in the street, Marius and Couferyac at his side. He rallied the people with his commanding voice, and they gathered around him, standing above them on a milk crate, begging them to bind together and fight against the tyranny that was in power in France. Louis Phillipe held the crown, and he lived in extravegance while the rest of the country begged on the streets. Enjolras seemed to know exactly what to say at any given moment, as his speeches varied with the moods of the crowds. Sometimes, he would give wild, fiery sermons, and other times, his voice was gentle and pleading. One thing that never changed, however, was the way that those blue eyes flamed with passion and bored into every man or woman that stood around him.

Eponine stood in the crowd at every single one of Enjolras' rallies, wearing her usual clothes and blending in with the rest of the angry poor that cheered him on. She did not shout or yell, but in her heart, she was proud – he was doing something that she always doubted he could do. The lower class was thirsting for blood because of him, and it seemed that a real revolution was firmly in the future.

"Eponine!" Enjolras kept his calm until he was only a few feet from her, and then called her name. She smiled at him, and he lifted her into his arms, pure happiness radiating from him. "It's really happening, 'Ponine!" he cried as he spun her in a circle. She chuckled lightly. He seemed just like a little boy with a new toy.

He set her down and, still with a smile plastered across his face, returned to Couferyac and Marius, who were standing just a little way away. Marius' eyes followed Enjolras, and then flicked back to Eponine. At that moment, she was reminded that he knew nothing.

It had been some while since she'd really held a conversation with him. He had grown more subdued as the talk of revolution had grown stronger, and he became less likely to seek her out. No longer did he knock on the wall outside her apartment to call her out for a walk, and when they did speak, he had little to say to her. For awhile, she thought he'd learned about her and Enjolras, but she realized that he hadn't when he cracked a joke one day about Enjolras' disinterest in women. She felt a pang at the time, almost feeling betrayed by the both of them.

Her feelings for Marius, however, she was able to put away for a time for Enjolras' sake. She chose to let her heart be loyal to him, because, she could tell, he needed someone to support him, even if he never said it. She was kind and loving. She kissed him in the morning and right before she fell asleep on the nights she would spend in his apartment – he had long since abandoned propriety and held her close in his bed. He was a comfort and he gave her somewhere safe to keep her affections. He had never given her any reason to distrust him, and he gave her reason to smile every single day.

"My 'Ponine," he whispered in her ear one morning. She gave a little grunt as she awoke. She realized quickly that she was not in her own bed, and reached her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. At that moment, she had the strangest thought. This man, so strong and brilliant, adored her with all of his heart, and she – could she possibly? – loved him.

For a time, Enjolras shared with her every thought that flitted into his head. He spoke quickly and excitedly about all of the new developments at the café, and she listened, but rarely put in any input, as she didn't ever quite know what to say. Eventually, however, his conversations with her grew shorter and more distracted. He spent more and more time with the men, particularly Couferyac, and less time with Eponine. She tried her best to keep up with him as often as she could, and convinced herself that she was happy. He was still kind, of course, and she found herself longing for his hand in hers or her arms around his bare torso as she slept. He did not deny her a moment of time that he could offer her, but his time was growing less and less. Even when he was at home with her curled against his side on the sofa, he had a map or notepad out and was scribbling furiously. He would put it down the second that she asked, but she could always tell that he was itching to get back to his work.

Eponine did not begrudge him any of it. As a matter of fact, his passion inspired her, and his love, not only for her, but for France, was a beautiful thing to witness. In a way, however, she found her heart wishing that she had him more often.

She had heard women complain of being lonely, but she barely knew what that was, since she'd spent her entire life lonely. It was a feeling she was more used to than anything else, and she'd been adept at pushing it away, until she'd met Enjolras and let him into her life. He'd changed everything, and made himself integral in every part of her being. The more he was gone, the more she wished he'd come back.

One particular evening, Eponine curled up in Enjolras' bed, completely alone. She wore his nightclothes, as she always did, and waited awhile for him to come home, but the minutes ticked by, each one longer than the last, and that's when it all made sense. He adored her, but his heart truly belonged to the revolution, and she would never have him unless he emerged victorious. If not, he would be gone, either in body or in spirit. He could easily die for his plans, but, should he fail, his spirit would be crushed, and he would no longer be the same man.

Eponine was acutely aware of Enjolras kissing her in her sleep, but she did not pull him closer as she generally did. Instead, in that moment, she pulled herself away, knowing that hope was no longer hers. He was a good man, but beside him at that time, she did not belong.

The pain of walking out the door was worse than anything that she'd ever had to endure. He slept so soundly, his gentle face pressed against his pillow, his arm still outstretched across the spot where she laid a moment before.

She left the bedclothes on the sofa with a little note written as best she could with a shaking hand.

Enjolras,

I go, not for me, but for you. Not because you have been unkind or untrustworthy, but because I know that your heart is with France and not with me at this moment, and I do not wish to be a burden upon you. I care about you deeply, and I pray that you and I may have an opportunity to be together again someday, but there are things that must be done first. You know where to find me, and I will never ignore you should you call, but I beg of you, Monsieur, just let me go for now. It is what is best for both of us.

Yours,

Eponine

Enjolras held the letter in his hand, shaking as he fought to hold back tears. He was a strong man, but this, this was too much even for him. He'd lost her once, and when he got her back, he vowed that he'd never lose her again.

If only he had told her. Three simple words, and perhaps she wouldn't be gone. He would have told her a thousand times over if he thought it would make a difference, but somehow, he knew that she was right. His heart did belong to France. If there was no freedom, there was no world for him to love her in.

Still, he could not allow himself any sort of mercy for making her feel unloved or second best. Eponine was his everything – the one person that was constant and unchanging. The one person he could count on, and he let her go.

"Eponine," he whispered to his empty apartment, "don't leave me." He finally allowed the tears to spill over. A moment later, however, he forced them back and set his resolve.

If he wanted Eponine, he would owe her his all, and his all would only be available if he were to succeed, so he could not fail. He would have his Eponine back.

He would never let her go again.