Between Love and Loss

by Marius blowthebarricade

1832 is over, the rebellion failed, the Friends of the ABC shattered, and its student leader Enjolras believed by all-including a gamine who stole his heart-to be dead. Eponine is alive, impoverished, and struggling to survive on her own. Enjolras is alive, imprisoned, suffering interrogation and torture. Death is coming. Yet perhaps they will meet again before he arrives.

26. Out of His Mind

All of my loyal readers,

Thank you all tons for sticking with this story! I cannot tell you have much it means to me. I cannot thank you enough.

Next, I must apologize for not updating this story in almost a month. My life has been super crazy, and I have hardly had any time to write, and on top of that I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter. Finally, I have finished it, and it is SUPER long. I apologize also for the length of this chapter, but being that I have not updated in so long, I think a long chapter might make up for the wait. ;)

Thank you again, everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I promise to update as often as I can!

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CHAPTER XXVI

Out of His Mind

For several days, Enjolras had been talking about going home. He wanted to be home already, but Combeferre would not let him leave, much to the relief of everyone else. Enjolras was not well enough to survive on his own yet. He was still too sick and too injured, and many of his wounds were not yet healed. However, in the next few days, Enjolras hoped to be gone.

Monsieur Aragon, the man who owned the flat Enjolras lived in 1832, had agreed to let him stay there only until he could find somewhere else to live. He needed to find somewhere. Enjolras had money that he had saved before the rebellion of 1832 and some that he had earned in prison, but he would need all of it to pay Thènardier, and he could not give it all up, because they needed money to live. So he had only one choice.

Earlier that week, still lying in bed, Enjolras had written a letter to his parents in Uzès, a rather small city in Southern France. He could not remember the last time he asked his parents for help. He must have been a child. Yet now, at twenty-six years old, with a wife and a child and no way to support them, he swallowed his pride and wrote to his parents. Like the Prodigal Son, he, who left his home and thought for so long that he could survive on his own, found himself in need of his mother and his father. Humbled and humiliated, he returned to them. Enjolras asked his parents to help him… He asked them for twenty-hundred francs.

It was a difficult letter to write. He had made no contact at all with his family in four years, and even before that, when he was in school, he wrote to them very rarely—he was busy and he had more important things to concern himself with. It might have been five years since he had last exchanged a word with his home. After all of this time, Enjolras had no idea what had become of his parents, and they did not know what had become of their only son. Enjolras did not know if they thought him dead or alive.

It took him a long time to finally complete a letter. It took even longer, because he attempted to write with his left hand. His script looked terrible, as if it had been written by an illiterate child. In frustration, he tore up the page and tossed it into the fire. He started over with his right hand. He struggled to write with his wrist in a cast. The pain was terrible, almost unbearable. Yet, he persisted. He tried to ignore his torture.

Éponine offered to write the letter for him, but they both knew that she could not write very well, so he refused. Combeferre, and Joly, and Courfeyrac offered the same, but Enjolras said no. He did not want anyone—especially not his friends—to know what he wrote in this letter. If they were to read it, they would detect his lies.

After several hours, he managed to produce the following:

To my father and mother,

It has been many years since I have last written to you. I apologize for my loss of contact and seeming indifference toward you both, but my silence was a consequence of which I had no control over. I would have written you long before now had it been in my power. It was not.

In the past years, I found myself in a difficult situation, and I have been unable to write. I do not know what you have been told of me, if anything. I do not know if you even believed me to be alive. However, I assure you that I am alive and well enough. I have been ill, but I am recovering.

I am still in Paris, but due to unfortunate occurrences, I have been unable to continue in school. Nonetheless, the Lord has shown me a great deal of kindness. I have given my heart to a young woman, and I intend to marry her.

(He was twenty-six years old now, so he did not need his parents' permission. However, he did not tell them that when he was still twenty-two he and Éponine were illegally married. He did not tell them that they already had a child. He did not tell them about their grandson.)

However, her father is requesting a price of twenty-hundred francs, and it is one that I cannot afford. If there was any other option, I would never ask this of you, but I have no one else to turn to. With humility and regret, I ask you to lend me this amount. Within the next year, I assure you that I will have repaid every sou that I have barrowed.

I hope you both are well. I hope fate has been kinder to you than it has been to me. I hope to receive word from you soon. God bless you.

Sincerely,

Your son Enjolras

Joly brought the letter to the post office on his way to the hospital on Tuesday. Now it was Sunday, and Enjolras was beginning to anticipate a letter from Uzès.

Combeferre was home. He had hardly left the house at all since his deceased best friend showed up on his doorstep. He went to the hospital a few times last week when his patients were in critical need of him, but he took great care to ensure that either he or Joly was home with Enjolras at all times. Enjolras was never without a doctor.

Courfeyrac and Joly—although they been there in the morning—left around midday, to take care of some business, they told Enjolras. Joly was at the hospital caring for his own and Combeferre's patients most of the week, except for when Combeferre went in to the hospital and Joly stayed home with Enjolras. Every night he returned to Combeferre's house to help him tend to Enjolras, to keep an eye on Enjolras so Combeferre could rest, to be with Enjolras for whatever precious time God gave them, to pray that He would not take their friend away. Courfeyrac spent a lot of time there as well. He had to work throughout the week, but he took as much time off as he could afford and spent every spare moment with the friends. Every night, he fell asleep on a couch in Combeferre's house.

Grantaire was gone. He did not stay after that first night at Combeferre's house. The following morning, he left. He returned several times throughout the week. He returned everyday. He returned more than once a day. Sometimes he stayed with them for most of the day, sometimes for hours; sometimes it was merely minutes when he—abruptly and with a start, as if he suddenly remembered an appointment that he was late for, which was not the case because Grantaire no longer had anything to commit to—said that he had to go and rushed out. Each time he arrived pounding on the door in restlessness and anxiety—sheer terror. His eyes were wide in fear, his face pale, a bottle gripped tightly in his hands. One might have thought that he received a vision during the night, a warning from the Lord, Who told him that Enjolras's time was up. Every time he showed up at Combeferre's house, it was as if he feared they would open the door and tell him that Enjolras was dead. Enjolras was not dead. He was still in horrible condition and in danger of dying, but he was still alive.

Élisabeth—she too was exhausted, like everyone else in the house—was asleep in her bedroom upstairs, alone in her bed as she had been all week, without her husband to hold her and comfort her, but knowing he would be there for her as soon as she woke up. Joly, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire were not at the house. The baby was asleep. The children were playing. Combeferre was sitting on the couch beside his brother Enjolras.

Yes, Enjolras was sitting on the couch. He was no longer suffering in his bed room, lying on his back, unable to get out of bed without them helping him up. Although he was still unwell, still sick, still hurt, still in great pain that he strove to hide, he was recovering. Slowly. He could get up now on his own. He could walk without them carrying him part of the way. He could eat without throwing up immediately afterward. He could think without confusing what was real with what was merely a product of his tormented and traumatized mind. For the first time in four years, he could sit beside his brother and act as if—they could pretend—everything was alright. For the sake of all of them, they could ignore the truth and tuck it away in a dark hiding place where they would keep it locked up until it found its own way out and attacked them.

Éponine was finally asleep. She had not slept for more than an hour at a time since they arrived at Combeferre's house. Fear—merciless and ruthless as it was—did not allow her to rest, and even when she was asleep it was not restful. The pain in her heart, the pain in her mind, the pain she saw before her in her beloved's broken body was torturing her. Ecstasy and misery collided within her soul, and the offspring was torment.

However, now, at last, Enjolras seemed to be recovering. He finally managed to convince her that he was not going to die. At last, Éponine believed him when he told her that he would live. She believed him. He would make it through this: he was strong, he would make it. She would not lose him. And so, at last, she allowed herself to rest.

When she fell asleep, she was sitting there beside Enjolras on the couch clutching his hand tightly. He was holding her hand just the same: in an inflexible grip, as if his fist had become rock, as if it was an iron shackle imprisoning her arm. It seemed he was always holding her hand now. Or else, she was holding his hand, or she was holding onto his arm, her head was on his shoulder, or his arm was around her, or he was holding onto her arm, or he was touching her hand, so long as he was touching her. He could not let her out of his reach, and, whenever she was out of his sight he began to panic. He could not let her out of his sight. He could not keep his hands off of her.) After she fell asleep, however, grudgingly, for her sake, Enjolras left her alone on the couch so she could rest in peace.

Her sleep was so still, so silent, and so deep it was like the grave. It was like death. Her eyes were closed, her eyelids and her cheeks beneath them darkened by exhaustion, weariness, and suffering. Her face was like stone, pale like a corpse. Her body was lifeless, drained of life, dead. Her head was limp on the pillow Enjolras put under it after she was unconscious (she did not wake or even stir when he lifted her head and positioned the pillow beneath it). Seeing Éponine asleep, Combeferre brought in a blanket, and Enjolras carefully laid it over and tucked it around his sleeping wife… if she was really his wife.

Of course, she was his wife! Do not be absurd! Enjolras told himself. Éponine was his wife. They had been married. …But not legally. Did that mean she was not his wife? Not legally. Did that mean she was still only his lover? His mistress? Was she only the illegal mother of his illegitimate child?

Stop this foolishness! What did it matter anyway!? Éponine was his wife, he had married her, and he loved her. That was all that mattered. He loved her. She loved him. That was all that mattered. He did not care what the law said. He did not care what the people said. He did not even care what the church said! Éponine was his wife. They could take many things from him, and they had taken nearly everything. Yet, they could not take Éponine. He would not let them—he would not let anyone or anything—take her from him. She was his. He would not lose her again.

He pulled the blanket up around her neck so the soft fabric caressed her cheeks. For a moment, he stood silently before her, looking down at her, gazing upon her, watching her sleep, adoring and yearning for everything he saw before him. She was so beautiful in sleep. She was always beautiful certainly, but now when she was sleeping she looked so peaceful, so perfect. She was like a divine being of Heaven. Enjolras saw before him a sleeping angel. Why had he never noticed before how beautiful Éponine was when she was asleep? Was he really that blind? How could this never have struck him until now?

Because he had never seen her sleep. As ironic and laughable as this excuse seemed—to say that this man, who was wed to this woman, who had a child with her, had never seen her asleep!—it was not incorrect. The first time they had gone to bed in the same room was the night of their wedding, the night before the battles, and Enjolras had fallen asleep before Éponine had. The following night at the barricades, the night on which Éponine had become pregnant, neither of them had slept even when they tried, not well, perhaps not at all, because they knew this would be their last night together. Tomorrow they would both be dead. So they clung to each other, and they did not let go, and they did not sleep. Four years passed, and Enjolras did not lay eyes upon his love. This last week had been like a dream. It had been a nightmare. It was Enjolras who was always unconscious and Éponine always watching over him. Thus, not until now was Éponine asleep. Not until now was Enjolras awake: his eyes open and his mind clear. Not until this moment, four years after their marriage, did Enjolras gaze upon his sleeping angel. Not until how did he know how enchanting and beautiful was an angel at rest.

Slowly, careful not to disturb her, he raised his hand—his harsh, calloused, scarred hand—and ever so lightly, like stroking a precious jewel that is more valuable than gold, more fragile than a crystal of snow, and more precious than a diamond, touched her cheek. He ran his rough thumb over her smooth skin. The coarse pads of his fingers tore at her flesh like glass-paper* ripping across silk, rupturing the glossy surface, pulling the threads, tearing the precious material. Terrified Enjolras withdrew his hand, flinching as if he had touched fire. He saw the scratches across Éponine's cheek. He had scratched her. Not even with his fingernails but with his fingers, he had scratched her. He had hurt her. He had only touched her, and it had hurt her. His touch, simply his touch, was dangerous. Hurtful. Damaging. With the gentle touch of his hand, Enjolras had hurt Éponine.

He stared helplessly at her, at the cuts he had inflicted upon her. He had hurt her. His Éponine! The one who he needed to protect, the one who he would have died to keep safe, the one he loved more than anything, and he had hurt her! He panicked. He did not know what to do. Instinctively, he started to reach out to her, to sooth the wounds perhaps, to comfort her. No! He abruptly stopped himself. He could not touch her. If he touched her, he would hurt her again. His hands were like knifes that cut and devoured innocent flesh, split innocent blood. Panic, terror, rushed into him and filled him. It was like poison overflowing in his veins, overwhelming, drowning him. God! Lord! What was he to do!?

"Is something wrong, Enjolras?"

He jumped, frightened by the voice. He spun around with speed like a whip cracking, the whip breaking on his naked back. He turned as if he had heard a gun fire and expected to see the murderer standing behind him with the weapon still smoking, still aimed at his heart. He saw only Combeferre, who was sitting calmly on a small sofa of the other side of the room. He was not holding a gun but a sleeping baby in his arms. He cradled his daughter against his chest, gently rocking her as she dreamt.

"I— uh…" Enjolras stuttered for a moment. He turned again and looked back at Éponine. He saw the scratches on her cheek: barely perceivable white lines like threads of spider web. They were not deep. In fact, he was not sure they broke the skin at all. They hadn't. They were not bleeding. They were not even red. They were barely scratches. If one wet a cloth and dabbed it against her cheek, theses marks would probably become invisible. It was remarkable, almost frightening: the wounds—the scratches, as these were certainly not wounds, not even cuts—had looked so much worse only a second ago…

"No," said Enjolras softly. He stared at Éponine a minute longer. He sighed, partially in relief and partially in sorrow. There were so many reasons to be rejoicing. Yet, at the same time, there were so many reasons to be grieving. He did not know which of these was stronger: the joy at what he hag regain in these last few days or the grief at what he had lost in the last four years. He did not know.

He stepped away from the couch. He was going to leave her and sit down beside Combeferre, but before he could bring himself to go he closed his eyes and bent over her. He kissed her forehead, softly, gently. His lips too were roughened, made like dry leather, but not so much as his hands, which were like severed rock. His lips left no blemish upon her head… Then he saw a faint smear of blood.

His heart dropped. He started to panic again. He realized that this blood was not Éponine's but his own. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He made to wipe that hideous red smear, even as barely noticeable as it was, off of Éponine's forehead but changed his mind. No, he would not touch her again. He did not daring to touch her again, not with his fingertips, not with his lips, not with anything. It was too dangerous. He was dangerous. That is what prison had done to him: it had destroyed his body and it had destroyed his soul. Now, he was cold, and harsh, and dangerous—like the blade of a killer's knife. Even when he did not try to, he hurt people. He hurt the people he loved.

Fleeing, fleeing from himself, he turned suddenly and went quickly across the room. He sat beside Combeferre. They sat in silence for a long time, over an hour, in the darkness of the house, the warmth and the glow of the fire. They watched their children play.

"They get along well," said Combeferre at last.

"Yes, they do," he agreed quietly.

"He looks just like you," Combeferre said in a voice just as softly. He turned his head to look at the man beside him. Enjolras was sitting on his right watching the children, and Combeferre could see only the left side of his face. He could not see the gory disfiguration inflicted by the fire. Had it not been for his short hair, his bruised eye, scratched cheek, the sickly pallor of his skin, the ghostly shadows beneath his eyes, the frightening darkness—like the presence of death—setting within them, things all which could be overlooked, Combeferre could have thought nothing had changed. He could have pretended that it was still 1832. Enjolras was still a boy. He was still free. He was still safe. He was still unbroken by the hand of prison, un-forsaken by his friends who failed him. In this moment, Combeferre could pretend such. But, in his grieved heart he could not forget, it was only pretend.

Yet, he was just beginning to have hope, maybe with time, Enjolras would heal and so would they all. Maybe, with time, things would go back to the way they were. Maybe, with time and with God, these broken lives would be mended, and things would return to what they were once before. Before the barricades.

Enjolras gazed across the shadowy parlor, illuminated only by firelight, and watched two young children—a pretty little girl, two years old, with cream-colored skin, rosy cheeks, amber eyes, and a pale pink ribbon in her soft brown hair, and a three-year-old boy with skin of silk, eyes of crystal, and luminous curls of sun—sitting on the floor, huddled together as they endeavored to play some kind of game (it was not any game that the adults knew of) with a set of dominos. Actually, the girl was doing most of the playing, and the boy was mostly just sitting beside her and watching her, his mouth open in awe.

Enjolras was quiet as he watched his son play with Combeferre's daughter. Océane was smiling, and many times a joyous smile spread across Andras's face as well. This was one of the first time Enjolras had seen his son happy. "He has Éponine's smile."

"Does he?" Combeferre asked raising his brow and smiling.

Enjolras nodded. "Yes. See, how he has dimples in his cheeks?"

"Oh, yes," he replied with a smile. "I did not realize. When I look at him, all I can think of is you."

Enjolras was still watching the children. A faint smile began to appear on his lips. Immediately, relief and happiness flowed into Combeferre's heart, reviving his weary soul like the Holy Spirit. To see Enjolras smile was a miracle Combeferre had once believe impossible. However, all things are possible with God.

Enjolras turned to his friend, the smile still present on his lips. "Your daughters look like you," he said honestly.

To Enjolras's surprise, Combeferre shook his head. "I think they look like their mother, especially Rose." He looked down to marvel with adoration at the beautiful baby girl he asleep in his arms. Combeferre leaned over and gently kissed her tiny head.

Rose had blue eyes, but aside from that Enjolras thought they both looked like their father. Perhaps they looked like Élisabeth as well, but without a doubt Enjolras could see Combeferre in each of them. He watched silently as Combeferre kissed his baby, and he felt a ray of happiness along with a pang of guilt in his heart—happiness for Combeferre and his family, guilt because he had not been there when his own child was a baby, he had not been there for his family. There was also sadness, longing. He had never kissed his own son.

A muffled cough came from the other side of the room, and Enjolras's head snapped around in fright. It was Andras, his son, who was coughing, his son who was sick. Enjolras feared the worst. He feared his child's illness would become worse, he would catch a fever, he would suffer, he would die… Now, when he heard the boy cough, Enjolras turned his head and almost expected to see Andras choking up blood.

He was wrong, however. The child's cough had not been, in reality, very bad at all. In fact, it was much better. In the last week, since Joly and Combeferre had been caring for him, giving him food, and warmth, and medication, Andras's health was improving greatly. He had not had a fever in quite a few days. His nose and lungs were clearer than they had been. Yet, there was still a dry cough that lingered.

"That is the first time I have heard him cough all day," said Combeferre quietly from beside him.

Enjolras turned his head. "Andras?" he questioned.

Meeting Enjolras's eyes, Combeferre nodded.

Enjolras was surprised and greatly relieved. He, himself, did not see Andras enough, was not conscious enough, throughout the day to know if his son's health was improving or degrading. Perhaps this had been beyond his control, but all the same Enjolras blamed himself for this. For this—and for so much else—he knew he was a bad father. He was a terrible father. He was a terrible husband. He had failed them both, Éponine and Andras. That was all he had ever been. He was not a great leader like his friend thought he was, he was not a brave warrior like Combeferre thought he was, he was not a good man like Éponine thought he was. No, he was none of these things. He was one thing alone: a failure.

Yet, now God was giving him a second chance. He had died, and now he was born again. For Éponine and for their child, he would give up anything and everything he had to be good to them. This time would not fail them. He failed them once already, but he would not fail them a second time.

"How much do I owe you, Combeferre?" Enjolras said suddenly, speaking bluntly and catching his friend by surprise.

Combeferre turned to him, frowning in bewilderment. "How much do you owe me? For what? You do not owe me anything, Enjolras."

"For the medical bills," Enjolras replied very seriously. He spoke the way a man might speak to a doctor who was not his best friend and his brother. He spoke in a curt manner like one discussing business. "For me and the child, how much do I owe you?"

Combeferre was appalled. "Nothing!" he cried, a bit too loudly, as he had forgotten that his daughter was asleep. He dropped his voice abruptly and rocked her gently in his arms, praying that she would not wake up. "Do not be ridiculous, Enjolras," he went on in a much softer voice, "you do not owe me anything."

"I am not a fool, Combeferre," Enjolras said in a stern manner, unyielding to his friend's generosity, not accepting his kindness. "How many drugs and medications have you and Joly spent on me? Likely more than you have spent on all of your patients combined in the last several mouths, and it has only been nine days. I will not let you and Joly pay for—"

"Enjolras, please," Combeferre interrupted, shaking his head. "If you think I will let you pay me, then you are out of your mind. I will not let you pay me a sou; I will not accept it."

"But—"

"No!" He raised his voice when he said this, but at the same time he was smiling at Enjolras. His voice softened and his smile faded. He went on quietly, "For the last four year, you have been in prison suffering for all of us while we did nothing to help you. Every one of us owes you our life, Enjolras. You owe us nothing."

Enjolras closed his mouth. He was going to continue to protest, but when Combeferre said this, Enjolras opened his lips and no words came. He sighed and looked away once more. He watched his son play with Combeferre's daughter. He never would have dreamed they would ever be here where they were now, both married, both fathers, watching their children play on the floor. Even now, he could hardly believe it. Until this last week when he saw these things with his own eyes, had an angel come to him and told him that these thing would come to pass, Enjolras would have laughed. Like Abraham's wife Sarah, who laughed when told she would have a child in her old age, Enjolras would have laughed at God.

Yet, as always, God knew better than he. God's plans were different than Enjolras's. So here they were. Here he was, a husband, a father, a convict, a rebel, and a murderer, who had failed and who had been given a second chance.

Very slowly, still gazing at his child, Enjolras whispered, "I want to go home, Combeferre."

Combeferre turned his head.

"I know you want me to stay here," Enjolras went on softly, "but I need to leave. I am well enough now. I can care for myself now." He turned his head and looked into Combeferre's eyes. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me and for my family, Combeferre. That I a debt I will never be able to repay. And I will ask no more of you. I need to leave."

He could not bear to stay here any longer and let his friends take care of him, do everything for him, do nothing else because they were caring for him, worrying about him ceaselessly, not resting because of him. He could not let them bear his burden any longer. Besides, his pride was dwindling quickly under their sympathy and pity, and—he could not help it—he desired to prove them wrong, to show them that he was not as weak or as helpless as they thought him, prove that he was still a man capable of maintaining himself. Even more so than his pride, his guilt forbid him to stay here any longer. He was Éponine's husband, and he was Andras's father. He had a duty to them. It was now his duty to protect them and take care of them—Éponine should not have had to take care of him as she had been this last week. He wanted to take his family to their own home; he wanted to provide for them. He had to. It was his duty. He could not stay here any longer.

Turning away once more, he looked at the little boy as he smiled at the girl. He added quietly, "…For Éponine and for our son."

Combeferre nodded. "I understand," he said sincerely. Of course, he understood. Combeferre was his best friend. From the beginning, they had always understood each other. They had always supported each other. Just the same, he knew Combeferre would support him now. Even if he wanted him to stay, he would let him go. He understood.

"But you need to at least stay," Combeferre continued, "until Joly and I close that wound on your face." (They had talked about this earlier in the week. For by this point, it had become clear that the deepest part of the burn on Enjolras's face—the spot where the fire had devoured his flesh entirely and his cheekbone was sticking out—would not heal on its own. They would have to do surgery. Yet, because of fear, Combeferre and Joly had put it off so far.)

"Do it tonight then," said Enjolras indifferently. "When will Joly be back?"

"It won't be long now," said Combeferre, glancing at the clock. "I suppose when he gets back we can do it… It is not a serious operation," he promised Enjolras again (he had already said this several times). "You do not have to worry."

"I am not worried," Enjolras answered at once, speaking partially to defend his dignity and partially to comfort his friend. He looked at Combeferre and gave him a small smile. "The best doctor in all of Paris is my best friend. Of course, there is no reason to worry."

Combeferre smiled, genuinely touched by this complement. He did not think he was the best doctor in Paris, or even one of the best. (Combeferre was a very humble man. However, there was a mutual agreement between all of the other doctors at the hospital, including Joly: Doctor Combeferre was the best. Combeferre was unaware of this.) Nonetheless, he could see that Enjolras truly believed this when he said this, and that meant very much to him. Enjolras could see the joy in his eyes when he smiled and softly replied, "Thank you."

Combeferre was right: it was not long before Joly returned to the house. A knock came at the door. "That must be Joly," Combeferre said, rising to his feet.

Enjolras started to get up as well. "I will get it, Combeferre," he protested. "You have your daughter, do not—"

"Oh, no!" Combeferre immediately objected. "You are not going anywhere. Do not get off of that couch, do you understand me, young man!?" Obeying, Enjolras smiled and even laughed softly. Combeferre smiled broadly. This was happiest he had been since Enjolras's arrival. For the first time in years, he and his brother were together, talking, smiling, joking, laughing. Even in 1832, even when they were students, Enjolras never laughed, yet he was laughing now. Maybe, Combeferre found himself thinking, things would return to normal after all. Yes, life was healing. God really was great.

"Hold her for me until I get back," said Combeferre, and he started to put his sleeping baby in Enjolras's arm.

"Oh, no!" Enjolras immediately refused. He drew back away from the child as if he was afraid of her, as if he was afraid to touch her, as if afraid doing so would hurt him… or perhaps afraid doing so would hurt her. "I don't—" He stuttered. "…I can't."

Combeferre frowned. "Why can't you? Do not be silly, of course you can." He tried to pass her to Enjolras again.

Again, he jerked away, throwing up his hands as if in a position of surrender, making it impossible for Combeferre to put the baby in his arms. "I cannot, Combeferre," he protested again. Combeferre could hear a hidden note of fear, even panic, in his voice. "I don't want to. I might drop her. I might hurt her—"

"You will not drop her," Combeferre said calmly and certainly.

Enjolras started to refuse again, but Combeferre was not giving him a choice. He moved closer to Enjolras and pressed the sleeping baby right against his chest. Helplessly, Enjolras had no choice but to take her into his arms and hold her.

She was so light! She was so tiny, so small, so fragile, so precious, like a sacred jewel. Enjolras was astonished at how weightless she was. Holding her in his arms was like holding nothing at all. Had his eyes been closed, he never would have guessed it was another human being that Combeferre had placed in his arms. He was astonished that any child, even a baby as small as Rose, could weigh so little.

"There," said Combeferre, who sounded very satisfied with himself for making his friend, who had never held a baby, hold his daughter. He smiled and nodded. "I will be right back," he left the room to answer the door. Enjolras was left alone with this sleeping baby in his arms.

It was one of the strangest things he had ever experienced, holding this little girl in his arms. Enjolras had never held a baby before. At first, every muscle in his body was tense and stiff, and he held her the way one in elegant clothing might hold a child covered in mud: grasping her tightly and holding her close to him for fear that he might drop her and at the same time wishing he could push her away. Slowly, he began to relax, and his body relaxed as well. His heart melted, and the baby melted into his embrace. For the first time in his life, he looked at a child that was not his own, and he decided to love her.

Rose was beautiful. Enjolras had never seen a baby so beautiful as the little girl sleeping in his arms. She looks just like her father, he thought again as he gazed at her tenderly, yet this was something Combeferre would always deny and Enjolras would insist nonetheless.

It was so strange to hold her. It was such a gift, such a blessing, a blessing which he did not deserve. The devil did not deserve to hold a baby angel. He did not even deserve to touch her, to look upon her. Nothing as dirty, as impure, as wretched, as sinful, as he had the right to touch anything as precious, as pure, as innocent, as holy as this child. Did her father not fear that by touching her, he would dirty her immaculate form? No, someone like him did not deserve to hold someone like her. Yet, Enjolras held this precious child tightly in his arms. He held her close to his chest, close to his heart. As he gazed at her—he did not take his eyes off of her for even a moment—he watched her little eyelashes flutter, and her eyelids opened. He saw a pair of perfect, sinless blue eyes staring straight back into his own blue eyes, his eyes which were darkened, and hardened, and corrupted by his years, toil, suffering, his sins, and his hatred.

He was afraid she would be afraid of him—his own son was afraid of him; young children often fear everyone save their own parents; she did not know who he was; and with half of his face burnt off, looked like a hideous monster, a creature of the abyss. He knew she would be afraid of him. He feared she would start crying.

He was already beginning to get up, ready find her father and give her back to him. However, Rose did not cry. In fact, she did not even look afraid. She was not scared of him. Enjolras was astonished. She did not know. She was too young to know, too innocent. This baby, so small, so precious, so innocent, did not yet know that there was such a thing in this world called evil.

Enjolras relaxed. He let his body sink back down onto the couch. He sat there holding baby Rose, and joy—radiant, ecstatic bliss like that which he had not felt since he was reunited with his wife and introduced to his son—flowed into his heart once more. He smiled at the baby. "Hi there, Rose," he whispered in a voice more gentle than he had ever heard himself use before. No, he had used it once before. He used this same voice when he spoke to his son, Andras.

"Hi, sweetheart…" He had never heard himself use that word before. She could not understand him, he knew, so it made no difference if he spoke to her. Yet she gazed at him, her wide blue eyes full of curiosity and interest, and she seemed to like the sound of his voice. He kept talking. "My name is Enjolras," he told the baby. "Your father is my best friend. He is a great man, the greatest man I have ever known. You are very lucky to have him as your father."

Enjolras looked at her, and he saw a miracle. A small smile appeared on the baby's face. She smiled at him. All at once, Enjolras was overwhelmed with emotion, with joy, happiness. Combeferre's daughter, a child so innocent, so precious, so beautiful was smiling at him. Suddenly, he wanted to lean over her and kiss her forehead. He did not, however. He could not. He wanted to, but he would not allow it. He would not kiss this child. He had no right.

Éponine was roused by the gentle sound of Enjolras's voice. He was whispering, and his voice would have woken no one else. Yet, Éponine could hear that voice even when she was asleep. She opened her eyes and, looking across the room where her son was playing with Combeferre's daughter, she saw Enjolras sitting on the couch, holding the baby in his arms. He was smiling at her, talking to her gently, laughing softly when she smiled at him.

Éponine's heart was filled with happiness that rustled in her soul, stirring it and warming it. In this moment, she was happier than she had been in… years. She was happier than she could remember being before. She was happiest she had been in her entire life. She saw Enjolras sitting there, the baby in his arms, and she knew that everything was going to be alright. She knew that their broken lives would heal. She knew that Enjolras would recover, Andras would come to trust and love him, and they would be a family. For the first time in her life, she would have a real, unbroken, un-fractured family. With Enjolras, she would build a true family, and they would be happy. Now, out of the ashes and the ruins, they would build their lives together.

Who knows? she allowed herself to think, to dream, of the future. At this time next year—perhaps not next year, but in a few years—they might be like this in the parlor of their own house, Andras playing and Enjolras holding his own baby in his arms. She wondered if she and Enjolras would ever have another child. Would Enjolras want to have more children? He never seemed very enthusiastic about having children in the first place, but now after he got to know his own son, after he got to know Combeferre's daughters, after he fell in love with them, Éponine was sure he would change his mind. In time, she was sure he would agree. Just thinking about the possibility of having another child—and this time having a child not on her own but with Enjolras, with the baby's father, her husband, by her side through it all—her heart swelled and overflowed with elation. For the first time since 1832 on the night they were married, this impossibility became possible. Yes, this joy, this blessing, was possible again. Anything was possible now. Her future with Enjolras was limitless.

Enjolras could sense her eyes upon him. For the first time, he diverted his gaze from the baby in his arms. He looked across the room, and blue eyes met brown. They gazed into each other's eyes, and they fell in love all over again. He loved her like he did on the night he married her, on the night he loved her at the barricades, on every night when he was in prison only staying alive because of her, on the night he found her in the church and she was glittering like a star in her white dress. He loved her more now than ever before. His love did not dwindle. Even on that night when he was seconds away from death, even when he was dying, his love for this woman remained alive and powerful. His love for Éponine would never die.

Without speaking a word, a smile spread across Éponine's lips, and she smiled at Enjolras. He smiled as well.

…

He could hear his heart in his head. It pulsed inside of his skull, throbbing in his temples, beating against his brain, hurting his head, making it swirl like a tornado and ache like a wound. He could feel his heart inside of him. It was hard to say if it was the reckless hammering of his heart, the ceaseless heaving of his infected lungs, or the slight movement of his broken ribs that was making his chest hurt so terribly. He was already in pain. Yet, the pain was not the worst part. What was worse by far was the fear.

He was lying on his back—a position that he was becoming far too familiar with—and staring at the white ceiling, which loomed ominously low over him like grey clouds that conquer the sky before they conger up a thunderstorm with Satan's black magic. The ceiling pressed down upon him as if in attempt to crush him. It made him feel claustrophobic… vulnerable, trapped. He was trapped within the closed door, these four walls, the floor, and this shadow-stained ceiling. He could feel the pressure of his imprisonment weighing down upon him, as if he was suffocating beneath the depths of the ocean. Just like drowning underwater, he could not breathe. He had managed to remain calm, to keep his head thus far, but it was only a matter of time before be began to panic.

The soft bed was gone, and he was lying upon the hard surface of a wooden table. His pillow was gone from beneath his head, and the blankets were gone from over his weakened body. There was a small fire in the furnace, but as if it was only an illusion, a ghostly flame, the room was cool. Cold. The bitter air assaulted him. It cut through his thin clothing without effort and hit his skin as if he were naked. A chill penetrated his body. It entered his bloodstream, sunk deep into his bones, and punctured his heart. A shudder passed through his body. He trembled.

He was afraid. Despite his courage, despite his efforts to be strong, he was afraid. Fear. He could feel it painfully twisting around inside of his stomach, churning his organs like a mincer grinding meat. Like toxins leaking out of his puncture stomach, he could feel it making its way up, up into his chest, which tightened and closed up as if cords had been wrapped around his lungs and bound them painfully together, up into his throat, where a painful knot formed and choked him. Earlier that morning he ate a small bowl of oatmeal, and—like his two proceeding meals, soup the previous night and warm milk the previous morning—he had not thrown up after eating. Now, however, as he lied on this wooden table and looked up at that foreboding ceiling, as he lied there, simply waiting, as fear devoured his insides like a wild beast, he began to feel nauseous.

He drew in a slow breath, letting air fill, expand, stretch his lungs, provoking a short rush of pain in his chest. He tried to control his fears. He tried to calm his nerves. He tried not to let them know that he was afraid.

There was nothing to be afraid of, he had to continuously remind himself. He knew it was true. He would be heavily medicated and unconscious during the operation. He would not feel a thing. It would not hurt. At least, not until he woke up afterward, and even then he might not feel anything—the nerves had been badly damaged; he might have lost all feeling in the area. So what had he to fear?

It was foolish, cowardly to be scared. He knew this, but he could not help it. He was afraid. He felt like a child: weak and pathetic. He knew that he should not be afraid, but he was. He could not help it. He could not help but perceive how exactly alike it felt now in this current situation as it did when he was in prison, when they were interrogating him. Torturing him.

From across the room, somewhere outside of his vision, where they were preparing their tools and cleaning their blades, he could hear the doctors speaking in low voices. They did not realize that he could hear them, but he could.

"How great are the chances of that?"

"I do not know. It is possible, but if we are careful I think he will be alright. We must make sure to clean the area well before we do it."

"Yes, but it could still get infected, and infection could kill him."

"Keep your voice down."

Their words faded to hushed whispering that he could not distinguish for the next minute or so, but then their voices unconsciously began to rise again, and he could make out pieces of the conversation.

"…make sure he is unconscious before we begin."

"Do you think we should restrain him?"

"Defiantly not! Are you out of your mind?" His voice dropped even lower, but he still heard him say in a hushed warning, "Do you not realize what that will remind him of? Do you not realize what they did to him?"

"I know that," the other cried in a stifled exclamation, "but if he wakes up during the surgery… You know how terrible that could be."

"He won't wake up, and if he does the drugs should be enough to control the pain."

"What if he moves while we are doing it, Combeferre? We could cut him in the wrong places…"

"Joly, please. Everything will be fine. This surgery is fairly simple, and he cannot feel much in that side of his face anyway. Everything will be alright."

"Enjolras," a gentle voice said just beside him.

He turned his head and saw Éponine's warm eyes looking over him. She was sitting in a chair beside the table he lay upon (Andras and Océane where asleep now, so she did not have to watch them), holding his hand, sharing with him the pain of waiting. She could hear Combeferre and Joly talking. She knew Enjolras could hear them as well. She knew he was listening. That is why she spoke, in attempt to draw his attention away from the conversing of the doctors and to get his mind off of his fears. She knew he was afraid.

She forced a false smile to appear on her lips. "How do you feel?" It was the first thing she could think of.

He hesitated before he answered flatly, "Well enough."

She nodded slowly, trying to buy herself more time as she thought of something else to say. "How long did Aragon say we could stay at your flat?" she asked next, even though she remembered what Enjolras had told her already. It was the first question that came into her mind.

"Only as long as it takes to find somewhere else to stay," Enjolras muttered groggily. "Probably a few days. Maybe a week if he is generous." His voice was heavy, weighed down by strong drugs the doctors had already given him. Combeferre gave him a very potent dosage about fifteen minutes ago, and they now were simply waiting for the drugs to enter his blood stream and knock him out. Éponine knew it would not be much longer.

Enjolras's eyes were growing tired, and he looked as if he would fall asleep at any moment. His mind was already succumbing to the effects of the drugs. It was taking him longer to process things he heard and saw around him. Whenever Éponine spoke to him, he had to pause and think for a moment before he could produce a reply. His voice too was beginning to muddle and his words beginning to slur. The drugs were working already. No, it would not be long now.

From across the room, Combeferre and Joly took note of this, and they made final preparations for the surgery. It was not an extremely complicated operation, but, if not performed correctly, complications could arise. Every surgery was dangerous. Like everything, it had its risks. Yet it was a risk that they had to take. They had no other choice.

There was a flap of skin that clung to the mutilation of Enjolras's face. It hung on like a thing that has fallen over the edge of a cliff and has barely managed to sink his fingers into the earth. He dangles above his death, hundreds of feet below. He holds on with all of the strength in his trembling and weakening muscles. He will not let go, but sooner or later, his fingers will slip. This skin, although only attached to Enjolras's body by a side, was still alive. It was like a red flag, hanging only by the one edge that is connected to the flagpole. The flesh was raw and leaking blood. It was on the outer right side of the wound and close enough to the place where the bone was visible. The doctors could make use of it.

Combeferre and Joly would take this piece of skin, carefully stretch it over the open hole in Enjolras's cheek, and sew it in place. This would close the wound, cover the bone, and—if God was willing—allow this terrible crater in Enjolras's face to heal, at least as well as possible. It was a type of skin grafting that doctors in various part of Europe as well as places in the Middle East and parts of Asia had been doing for many years. This was one of the few surgeries that was commonly successful. However, if the wounds were not properly cleaned before the operation, if they were not properly treated and cared for after, infection was common. Infection could always kill.

As Combeferre and Joly made their way across the room toward their patient, Éponine tightened her grip on her husband's hand, as if afraid they would take him from her, afraid she would lose him. Before they got there, she leaned over him and kissed his forehead, being careful that her lips did not touch his wounds. Then she lowered her lips to his ear and whispered those sacred words: "I love you." She said his name as well. "I love you, Enjolras." She had to say it. Just in case.

"Alright," said Combeferre. He met Enjolras's unfocused eyes and forced a smile. "How are you feeling, Enjolras?"

Enjolras muttered something that was hard to understand before he cleared his throat softly, coughed once, and answered hoarsely, "Alright, I suppose."

"Getting tired?" Joly observed with a kind smile and faint chuckle. Enjolras looked as if he could hardly keep his eyes open.

In reply, Enjolras only grunted. He closed his eyes.

Combeferre lowered his voice and muttered something in a serious undertone to Joly. Then, turning back to Enjolras, resuming the lighthearted act, he smiled and said as if unworried, "Joly and I are going to start cleaning the wound, Enjolras. You should not feel much, but if it hurts let us know, and we will wait until you are asleep."

Fear suddenly awaking his senses, Enjolras opened his eyes. He saw Combeferre's kind eyes, filled with compassion and reassurance, looking down at him, watching him carefully. He saw Joly observing him with anxiety and pity. He saw Éponine's grieved face looking over him like a grieving angel. He had to be strong. For them. Forcing down his fear, swallowing it like a pill that was just a bit too large to get down, he nodded. He braced himself.

He could feel his heartbeat increasing, his lungs beginning to work faster. The strain was painful as he fought to slow his breathing and his body fought against him. He stared at the ceiling, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Combeferre lowering something toward his cheek. What was that!? Enjolras turned his head suddenly, flinching startled and altered. His eyes darting to Combeferre's hand. It was only a small piece of cloth.

"We are just going to clean the wounds, Enjolras," Combeferre said gently, retracting his hand slightly. He added a moment later, "We can wait until you are asleep if you want us to."

Enjolras did want them to, but he would not admit it aloud. He would not be seen so weak. So cowardly. So instead, already embarrassed for flinching as he did, he shook his head. "That will not be necessary," he said in a cold voice void of emotion. "Do it now." He closed his eyes.

"Alright," he heard Combeferre answer a bit reluctantly. He lowered his voice and muttered something to Joly. Blind, Enjolras lied on his back, his body tense and immobile but his heart hammering ceaselessly. He waited.

Something touched his cheek. He flinched.

"Are you alright, Enjolras?" Combeferre asked, and whatever was touching his cheek vanished. Enjolras could hear concern overflowing in Combeferre's voice.

"Combeferre, I think we should wait," Joly whispered, but if he had not wanted Enjolras to hear him he had failed.

Éponine squeezed his hand. In worry and compassion, she said softly, "Enjolras…"

Enjolras opened his eyes and saw three faces looking down at him in fear. "I'm fine!" he snapped in sudden frustration and offense. He would not tolerate this, them treating him as if he was a child, as if he was fragile and delicate, as if he could not handle for them to clean his wounds. Did they really think him that weak? Well then, where have they have they been for the past week? Did they not see him enduring pain far greater all week every time Combeferre and Joly changed his bandages? He could handle it then, and he could handle it now. They treated him like some weak, pathetic coward, but they had no such right. What did they know? What did they know of what he could handle, what he had suffered, what he had gone through? Nothing! He had suffered and survived far worse than this, and they had not been there to comfort him then. He did not need their sympathy now. He did not need it, and he did not want it. Their sympathy did not help him in the least. It only wounded his pride.

He detected his hand from Éponine's and pulled away from her. He was not a child who needed to hold his mother's hand for comfort and protection. She had not been there to hold his hand when he is being tortured in prison, and he did not need her to hold his hands now. Coldly he added, "I do not need your concern. Get on with it."

Éponine, Combeferre, and Joly exchanged reluctant glances, but giving in—what other choice did he have? Enjolras, his leader, was giving him a command, and what could he do but obey him?—Combeferre sighed and nodded.

This time, Enjolras kept his eyes open, and the doctors began to prepare his wounds. First they cleaned the burn with cold water, gently dabbing the area with a damp cloth. The nerves in his face had certainly been damaged. There were times when Enjolras could not feel anything at all, and had his eyes been closed he wound not have known even that they were touching him, but there were other times when he could feel it, and it was painful. A strange sort of pain—sharp and dull at the same time, an awful burn but muted, a blow to the face with faded intensity—cut through his flesh… or whatever was left on it. He clenched his teeth. That hurt. He clenched his fists. That hurt as well. He swore in his head. His face remained like stone.

Then, they cleaned the wounds with other ointments and brews. As he stared at the ceiling, he saw a hand moving over him, coming toward him. Something touched his cheek. Ow! God, it hurt!Enjolras bit his tongue to keep himself from crying out. Another hand reached toward him from the other side of the table he lay upon. Another sharp pain shot through his face. Each second, there was growing discomfort and growing pain in his wounds. It was going to his head, which was beginning to spin and ach, to throb. It pounded ceaselessly against his skull, harder and harder by the seconds. He was not sure if it was his heart beating in his temple, or merely pain—sheer pain. It was going to his stomach, as well. Be was beginning to feel nauseous, sick. He feared he would throw up.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to clear his head, but the pain would not ease in his skull or in his wounded face. He could feel hands handling and meddling with his wounds. He could feel pain. It was like being in prison again. It was like they were torturing him, and he was struggling not to show pain. Not to make a sound.

In attempt to calm his nerves and sooth his pulsating head, he drew a long breath in his lungs. He could smell blood. He could smell the reek of wounded flesh, of burnt flesh. He could smell death. His heart was beating faster. He inhaled a little too suddenly, and sharp pain sliced through his lungs. It hurt his chest. He coughed, and fluid stirred in his lungs. He could taste blood in his mouth. Then the real pain hit.

It was agony. It burned! It stung horribly, ceaselessly, mercilessly…

The fire took him without warning. Before he knew it happened, he was engulfed in tribulation like that which will come at the judgment of the earth. There are no words to depict such pain. The flaming hands of demons not only touched him but moved into him. Hands and arms of flame sunk into his flesh, cutting through it, ripping it apart, devouring it, and burning it. Trapped in hell, lying in the pit of a fire, chained to the earth by metal that did not burn: that is where Enjolras was now. He could not think. He could not breathe. For a moment, he could not even scream. He was on fire.

Someone yelled. It was a terrible, agonized, terrified cry. It was like the whale of a damned soul who is trapped in eternal torment and torture in hell, like one who cannot escape the demons, the devil, or the fire, like someone who must forever endure the excruciation of dying but never really dying and escaping, because he is already dead.

"All you have to do is give me the names of the other traitors, and all of this pain will end."

Oh, my God!

It was that cold, terrible, pitiless voice that he had come to know much too well. He knew it at once. His blood—which was all over him, drenching him, spilling out onto the table around him, draining out of his body, soaking him, killing him—ran cold. His naked flesh turned to ice and was suddenly covered in goose bumps. He was trembling irrepressibly. His heart shuddered in terror, and it whaled in agony as something like the blade of a sword went into it. This sword was fear. No, not fear. Terror. Unadulterated horror. This was the voice of Satan. The voice of the General. General Paye.

"I don't know the names!" he screamed. His voice was high and strained, cracking and breaking like glass. The general had broken him. "I don't— I don't—"

"You are lying," said the general's voice of ice.

"I don't know—" He could not finish this decree. He scarcely got out these three words, and it turned into a loud cry.

The pain increased.

All he was aware of was agony. Vaguely, he heard his flesh hissing like a piece of meat as it fries in a skillet over a stove. His skin shriveled and curl like embers burning up in a hearth. It began to bubble and blister furiously and rapidly. His blood seemed to be boiling and evaporating. The demons drank his blood and spat in his wounds. Enjolras felt like his flesh was dissolving in poison or being devoured and swallowed by acid. He feared that the flame had burnt through the eyelid, entered the socket, and was reducing his eye to ash and blood. Blood filled his mouth and ran like a river down his throat. Blood. Fire. Pain. What more was there now? What more is there in this place called hell? This man-invented hell called prison.

"Stop! Stop it! Please! Please!" he screamed hysterically. He begged. For the first time since he entered this prison in 1832, Enjolras was broken. Proud, brave, strong, great Enjolras, who seemed unbreakable, was broken, and he was begging like a pathetic child. That is what they had reduced him to. A beggar, a traitor, a criminal, a convict. He was nothing now. He was a weakling, a coward, a fool. He was a disgrace. He had failed. He had failed the Revolution, his country, his people, his friends, his family, everything that really mattered in his life. And he had failed himself. "PLEASE!" "Please sto—" He screamed again, a short, cut off, choking, gagging, gargling, suffocating, smothered, tortured cry.

"The pain will stop when you tell me the names of the other traitors," that icy voice, indifferent to suffering, not melted by fire, came floating above the storm of torture, looming above him as death looms above his prey before he takes it. "You and your friends have betrayed your country, and now you must pay the consequences of your actions. Justice must be served. Tell me the names, and you will feel no more."

"No!" Enjolras screamed. His voice was overflowing with agony, suffering, fear, terror, pain, anger, and through it all there was still defiance. "You're lying! You're lying! I won't tell you!"

"Enjolras! Enjolras, look at me! It's alright! You're alright!"

"Yes, you will. Before this is over, you will tell me everything."

"No! I won't tell you! I won't tell you! I won't—"

"Enjolras, please! It's alright! You're alright! You're safe! You're here! You're with me! It's me! It's Éponine! You're wife!"

People were all around him. The prison guards, he knew. Hands were all over him, holding him, restraining him, trying to keep him still. He fought them recklessly, struggling with all of the dying strength left in him, thrashing about like a wild animal, clawing at him, throwing his elbows, throwing his fists, kicking, struggling, anything, doing anything to get away. He screamed at them to let him go.

"Let him go, just let him go! Just let him…"

"What the devil is the matter with him!?"

"Enjolras, look at me! Please! ENJOLRAS!"

He turned his head, and he saw one of them who was holding him. She was gripping his shoulders and trying to keep him from thrashing about, trying to keep him still. He saw a pair of huge brown eyes, dark hair, a frightened face. He did not know her. He did not know who she was. In frantic terror, he looked wildly around him. He looked like someone who has lost his mind.

"Enjolras, it's alright. You're alright. You're safe. You arenot in prison. You are home now, you are safe now. You are with me. It is me, Éponine, your wife."

He saw two other faces—men this time—that he did not recognize. They were standing around him, close to him but keeping their distance. They were staring at him with looks or horror upon their faces. He looked hastily at the girl once more.

"Enjolras, it's alright," she was saying very slowly, very certainly. Her voice was somehow soothing, calming. She must have been terrified—he could see the terror in her eyes—but at the same time, she was gentle. For his sake, he acted as if she was not afraid. "You are safe now, Enjolras," she said softly but firmly. "You are here with your friends. You are here with me. It's me, Éponine. I'm Éponine. Your wife."

He stared at her. He stared at Éponine. His wife.

His eyes were wide and possessed by frenetic terror, like the eyes of a madman or a man possessed by a demon. His face was white and panic-stricken. His lungs were heaving restlessly and heavily. They could hear mucus and inflection rattling lowly in his chest. His breathing was a storm. His lungs and airways were raw, and his chest hurt from the strenuous action of his lungs and heart. His heart was pounding so fast that it was making him lightheaded. He was drenched not in blood but in sweat. His entire body was shaking, quivering, trembling like a dead leaf that will fall from the dried limb at any second. He was staring in to the confused and terrified face of Éponine, his wife.

Utterly bemused, shocked, and astonished, but above all petrified, he looked around him again. He was sitting up on a table. He was not naked; he was not chained down to cold stone; and he was not covered in blood. He was not on fire. (There was a dulled stinging sensation in his cheek, where the doctors had dabbed alcohol onto his wounds to clean them.) He was in Combeferre's house. He saw Combeferre, his best friend, his brother, whom a moment before he had not recognized. Combeferre was close to him, within arm's reach but not touching him. He saw Joly, who was staring at him as if he were a lunatic, a madman and a danger, who ought to have been locked up in an asylum, standing not far behind Combeferre. Both of them were gaping at him, their wide eyes gleaming in fear, and their pale faces overwhelmed with distress and shock. Their expressions reflected his own fear, his own confusion, his own terror.

What… What just happened? Enjolras, distraught, drained, and more afraid than he had been since that night when they tortured him in prison—that night which he had just relived—thought helplessly. On moment he was in Combeferre's house, and then he was in prison, and they were torturing him, and they were burning him, and then… He woke up. It was like one of his nightmares, but this time he was not asleep. He had no idea what had happened to him, what was still happening to him. He was a fool, and he knew nothing. He was a helpless and defenses weakling, and he was terrified.

"It's alright, Enjolras," Éponine said again, trying desperately to make him understand her. "It was not real. You're not in jail anymore. You're safe. You're with me."

He flinched, startled by the voice, and his wild eyes darted back to her once more. He stared at her. "É… Éponine…" a thin, trembling, breath finally fell through his parched lips. He recognized her.

Éponine sighed like one, who is about to burst into tears, as relief poured into her heart. Without thinking or hesitating, she did something that might have been very unwise, but she did not care. She pulled him toward her and closed her arms around him, locking him in a forceful embrace. She could feel his body tensing at her touch, but he did not pull away from her. He did not fight her. He did not hit her. He let her hug him.

"Enjolras," she whispered his name. Holding him in her arms, she could feel him shaking madly like one who is freezing to death, like one who has fallen through an ice-coated lake and entered the lethal water beneath. She could feel his sweat sticking to her as well as the heat radiating from his body. She could hear and feel him breathing. He was still panting and gasping breathlessly. "It's alright," she whispered into his ear, trying to calm and comfort him, concealing her own terror for his sake. She too was terrified.

Naturally—after the last three years of being a mother, raising her child, comforting him when he was scared or hurt, such a thing came quite easily—she raised a hand and gently stroked his shoulder. She held him until his breathing began to slow, his body stopped shaking so violently, and he seemed to calm a bit. She comforted him the way she comforted Andras when he had bad dreams and woke up during the night. "It's alright," she repeated again, even softer this time, but in reality she had no idea if it was alright. Certainly it was not alright, nothing was alright! Something was terribly wrong. Something awful was wrong with Enjolras. She would not believe it; she would not even think it! However… it seemed as if he had lost his mind. But she could not tell Enjolras that.

"What… what happened?" Enjolras finally spoke. His voice was soft, weak. It trembled. He drew away from Éponine. She let him go. Like one in shock or delirium, he looked around. He saw Combeferre and Joly again. "I…" he stuttered. No words came to follow this one. He did not know what to say. Whatcould he say? He could not explain himself; he could not defend himself. He could produce no justification for his actions. He did not even know what had happened to him.

"I… I'm sorry…" he finally said in a breathy whisper. That was all he could say. Ashamed, he could only apologize. He dropped his gaze and stared at the wooden table beneath him. He could not look into their eyes. "I'm sorry," he muttered again, so quietly that they could barely hear him. "I thought—" He stopped. Instead of finishing that last phrase, he raised his eyes and glanced quickly about the room, almost expecting to see the general lingering somewhere—lurking in the shadows, waiting in a concealed corner, hiding behind a wall or piece of furniture, lingering somewhere in that room, just waiting to get his hands on him again so he could torture him, and this time he would kill him—around him still. He saw no such person. He saw only the inviting interior of Combeferre's house. He saw only his friends and his wife, all of whom were watching him in fear, afraid of what he might say or do next.

Enjolras looked down. Bowing his head, hanging it in shame, he stared at his lap. He could not look them in the eye. Shaking his head, he muttered another time, "I am sorry. I don't… I don't know what came over me."

In fact, Enjolras did not know what had happened at all. What had happened? To him, it was simple. He had been in prison again. At least, that is what he had thought. That is what he had seen. For a moment—perhaps more or less than a moment; he did not know how long it had been; he did not know anything—he thought he was in jail. He forgot entirely about what was happening at present, and he was being tortured, burned alive. Time had rewound itself. He was in prison, and they were torturing him.

…And in the blink of an eye, he was in Combeferre's house again.

What in God's name had happened? Had he really been in prison? Had they really been torturing him? No, of course, not. The very thought was absurd. Yet, it had seemed so real...

Enjolras forced these thoughts out of his mind. Despite how real it seemed, it was not real. He had imagined it—he must have. That was the only explanation. He had imagined it. He had seen—no, he had not just seen; he had experienced, endured—things that had not really happened. He had lost his mind. His mind had been conquered by, perhaps, pain, or fear, or weakness, and he was drawn into a fit of madness.

While he was in prison, while he was on fire, what had really happened? What had happened in the real world, here in Combeferre's house? He did not know. He wondered how much he had been shouting, how much he had been screaming. He hoped—for God's sake, he hoped!—he had not screamed everything he had screamed in his vision. However, judging by the reactions of those who had witnessed his... episode, he feared the worst.

Now what was he to do? Sitting on that table with every eye upon him and staring at him as if he was a psychotic maniac—and for all he knew, maybe, he was—Enjolras was mortified. He was embarrassed, humiliated, ashamed, disgraced. Now they saw him for what really was: a weak, pathetic, helpless, disgusting, disgrace. Now his friends knew the truth. He could not even look them in the eye.

"Do not be absurd," Combeferre's voice finally broke the terrible silence, which had fallen over them all and become as thick as a stone barrier between them. Somehow, even after it all, Combeferre managed to sound as if everything was alright. He managed to act as if he was not terrified, as if he was not appalled by Enjolras, as if he was not ashamed of him. In fact, he acted as if nothing had happened at all. "There is no need to be sorry, Enjolras," he said as if this was true. He approached his friend as if this was normal and said lightly, "It was probably just the drugs we gave you. Sometimes they can go to the head and make people imagine things. That is all."

Enjolras was shocked by what he heard. He was shocked that Combeferre—honest Combeferre, whom he had never heard tell anything but the truth—was capable of telling such a blatant lie, and he was shocked even greater that he managed to present it so that it sounded as if it were true.

"You have no need to worry," he said kindly. Enjolras could not help but feel a bit of comfort, a bit of relief, as he stared into those warm brown eyes, even when he knew they were feeding him nothing but lies. Yet, lies were what he wanted to hear. Combeferre smiled gently. "Everything is alright, Enjolras." That was a lie. "We are here. We are here for you. I promise." That much, Enjolras knew, was true. Even if his was crazy, even if he was out of his mind, a madman, a murderer, his friends would remain by his side. Combeferre would stay by his side no matter what happened, just as he did at the barricades. Combeferre never broke a promise.

"Yes," Éponine agreed almost too eagerly. "See, Enjolras? There is nothing to worry about. Everything is alright."

"Combeferre," Joly said in a hushed tone, but Enjolras heard him nonetheless, "we should not do this."

Combeferre nodded in agreement. "Enjolras should rest now, and we can perform the surgery... later. Some other time. Once he has recovered more."

"No!"

They turned suddenly, startled by the cry.

"No," Enjolras protested again, shaking his head feverishly. "No, do it now."

"Enjolras, I do not think that is a good idea," Combeferre started to say.

"Do it now!" Enjolras ordered, even more strongly this time, more harshly. "You are ready now; do it now! It would be foolish to wait. Why wait? It was nothing!" he snapped defensively. Even when he knew they had every right to treat him like some vulnerable, unstable creature—that is what he was now; that is what he had become; that is what his enemies had reduced him to—it made him angry. "You said yourself it was nothing, so do it now!" He pulled abruptly away from Éponine, whose hand was still on his shoulder, and lied back on the table again. He stared up at the ceiling and waited.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Joly and Combeferre exchanging reluctant and nervous looks. "We will wait until he is asleep," Combeferre finally said, and Joly nodded.

So Enjolras lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep, listening to his heart pound, listening to Combeferre and Joly's unperceivable whispers, trying to calm his frantic thoughts, trying to convince himself that everything would be alright, trying to clear his head, trying to conquer his fears, losing this battle, losing his mind.

Fifteen minutes later, he was asleep.

...

Éponine stayed by his side the entire time. They asked her if she wanted to go, urged her to go in fact, as this was not something she should see, but Éponine refused. She stayed. She stayed with Enjolras. She watched them perform the surgery. She watched them cut her husband's face, sew it back up, collect the blood in rags, clean the lesions, and cover the upper half of his disfigured cheek with a clean white bandage. Even though he was asleep and he could not feel her touch, she held his hand through it all.

Now, it was getting late. Joly left minutes after they finished the surgery (he did not say exactly why he had to go, only that there was something important he must attend to, and he was gone). Combeferre stayed with Enjolras, of course. He would not dream of leaving his side after what happened tonight. Without rest, he was busy monitoring Enjolras's temperature, trying to soothe his fever, checking his wounds, tucking a soft blanket around his body.

Éponine felt like she was dreaming. Sleepwalking. She had not moved from her chair beside the table where Enjolras lay still sleeping. She was still holding his hand. She felt numb, empty inside. She felt as if her world—which she had just begun to think was coming back together, fixing itself, healing—was falling apart before her eyes, and she was helpless to do anything but sit there and watch.

How can this be happening? The question kept repeating itself in her mind, and each time she was unable to answer it. How can this be happening? What was going to happen now? Oh, yes, for a long as they could, they would pretend nothing was wrong. They would go on, lying to each other, covering the truth, pretending that everything was alright. But it was only a matter of time. Before long, even if they chose not to reveal it, the truth would reveal itself, as it always did. It would spring out into the open for all to see at the worst possible time, and everything would fall apart from there. What would they do when they learned Enjolras was out of his mind?

Would they take him from her? Would they take him away and lock him up in one of those cursed asylums? Had they freed him from one jail only to imprison him in another that could be just as dreadful, if not even worse? She had heard stories about those terrible places, bone-chilling tales that would disturb a grown man and keep him awake at night when he was trying to sleep. When they were children, Montparnasse used to tell her about things he had witnessed when hanging about such institutions. Maybe he was just trying to scare her, maybe he made them up, but now, at twenty years old, she recalled what he had said when she was a child, and she was terrified anew.

Men caged like dogs, treated worse than animals, treated as if they were incapable of thinking or feeling, treated as if they were not men at all, treated much the way convicts were treated in prison; men starved, beaten, and bled; men tied down on tables while doctors operated and experimented on their heads, cut open their skulls, cut up their brains, trying to find a cure for their disease—Montparnasse had to have made that up! she thought in horror, unwilling to believe it. Even if such things were going on, how could he have seen it? How could have seen into the rooms? He said there was a window he looked through, but would there be a window in a room where that was taking place? No, certainly not! Montparnasse made it up, she concluded decisively, but she was still uneasy. She was still afraid.

"How is your eye, Éponine?" a soft voice said at last, interrupting her thoughts.

Éponine was startled slightly. She looked up, and found herself staring into Combeferre's kind eyes. "Oh," she said, as if she had forgotten entirely about it. She brushed the comment off, "I'm fine. It's nothing."

Combeferre nodded. He looked down and watched his hands as he gently dabbed a cloth on Enjolras's sweaty forehead. "Unfortunately," he went on, a grim shadow weighing down the voice he was trying to keep light, "you will probably have a nasty bruise tomorrow."

Éponine cringed slightly at the thought. She already had one black eye, and by morning she would have another. She did not care about that, however. She did care though. If her eye bruised, Enjolras would notice. He would ask questions. He was not stupid; even if she denied it, he would figure it out. She did not want him to know. She did not want him to know that he had hurt her.

He had not meant to do it, of course. He was frantic, out of his senses. He did not know what he was doing. When he had… lost it… when he started panicking, and thrashing about, and screaming, Éponine was the first to take hold of him, trying to calm him down. He fought her recklessly, and his elbow hit her eye socket. It was not his fault, but, nonetheless, she knew he would feel terrible if he found out what had happened. If the truth did not insist in revealing itself, she was not going to tell him. For now, he did not know.

It was silent for a moment. Combeferre continued to care for Enjolras, not looking at Éponine but his sleeping friend. There was a thoughtful, concerned, grim expression on his face. He would not have wanted anyone to know what he was thinking, but Éponine needed only look at him, and she knew.

"What was wrong with him?"

Combeferre raised his head and looked over the table between them, which Enjolras was lying upon, to meet Éponine's eyes. His heart turned cold at her last question. When he tried to answer, his voice was merely a whisper, "What do you mean?"

"You know very well," she said quietly. Her voice was faint, but hard, hard like a stone and like her hardened heart. She spoke bluntly and grimly. "It was not the drugs. You and I both know that. He thought…" She paused for a moment. She found herself gazing, with emptiness in her stomach and chest, at Enjolras's sleeping form. She was terrified of losing him, and now it seemed she was going to lose him one way or another, whether to death or man. "He thought he was in prison again," she said with a heavy heart that was hard to carry. Her voice was even softer when she whispered, "He thought we were torturing him."

Combeferre did not answer at first. He gazed silently at Éponine, and then Enjolras. He let out a burdensome sigh. "Yes."

"Why did he think that?" she looked at Combeferre, lost and confused, scared, desperately hoping that he would have an answer. "It was not the drugs. He was…" He was out of his mind! she thought, she wanted to scream, but she could not bring herself to say it aloud. She could not admit it.

Combeferre did not answer. He was thinking the same thing.

At last, Éponine opened her lips and spoke. Her voice quivered as if she was about to break and weep. She was able to keep herself from doing so, however. "Will they take him from me for this? Will they make him go to an institution?"

"Certainly not!" Combeferre declared at once. Any other doctor would not have said this. Had any other doctor witnessed what Combeferre had witnessed tonight, he would already have arranged for the patient's immediate transport to an insane asylum. However, Enjolras was not going to an asylum. Not so long as Combeferre was alive. Even if ever they tried to take him, Combeferre would not let it happen. No, Enjolras was not going anywhere. As long as Combeferre was alive, Enjolras would not be locked up anywhere ever again.

"Do not worry, Éponine." Combeferre reached across the table and grasped her hand fervently. He looked her straight into her eyes. Éponine stared back into his stark, brown eyes, and she perceived that she was looking directly into his soul. She had no doubt that whatever he said next came wholly from his heart. What he said next was the undaunted truth. "I promise you, I will not let that happen. I will not let anyone take him. He is not going anywhere."

She believed him. She sighed in relief and nodded slowly. "Thank you."

It was almost an hour later when Enjolras began to stir. Éponine and Combeferre halted in the midst of all action and thought, and their eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Enjolras. Holding their breath, they watched him—anxiously, fearfully, worried that he would open his eyes and not know where he was or who they were. Enjolras opened his eyes.

"Enjolras..." Éponine said softly, trying to hide her fear, trying not to let him hear her anxiety. She moved closer to him so he could see her face.

He stared at her. He did not say anything.

God, he does not know me! Éponine thought in terror.

"Éponine," Enjolras said in a weak voice.

She let her breath out. Thank God. "Hey," she answered softly. She gently touched his cheek—the cheek that was not covered by a gruesome burn or a new bandage. "How do you feel?"

"Well," said Enjolras. He sat up. Combeferre and Éponine both flinched and moved closer to him in protest, already opening their mouth to tell him to lie down once more. Enjolras's muscles tensed as pain throbbed in his wounds. Combeferre saw him cringe.

"You need to rest, Enjolras," he said. He put a hand on Enjolras's shoulder. "You should lie down."

Enjolras dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "That is not necessary. I am fine." He let his legs fall over the edge of the table and began to get up. Éponine's heart jolted in fear, and she immediately grabbed onto Enjolras's arm. He stood, and she was afraid he would fall if she did not hold onto him. He brushed her off.

"Where is Joly?" asked Enjolras, looking around the room and noting his friend's absence.

"He has a few things he had to take care of," said Combeferre, speaking as if he knew where Joly had gone or what he was doing. "I suspect he will be back tomorrow morning."

Enjolras did not know if he should believe that. Combeferre seemed sincere enough, but there was something in his voice… Enjolras could hear a note of discomfort in Combeferre's words, as if he was nervous… as if he was hiding something. Enjolras nodded uneasily. "I see." He paused. He glanced at Éponine. He hesitated. He would have rather been alone with Combeferre, but this might be his only chance, so he sighed and told him. "Combeferre," he began softly.

"Yes, Enjolras."

"About what happened earlier today," Enjolras went on stiffly. It was difficult to say this. It was difficult to continue. He forced himself to go on. "Please, do not worry yourself. It was nothing."

"I know that, Enjolras," Combeferre lied with impressive sincerity. He smiled gently. "There is nothing to worry about." He glanced at Éponine. Without meaning to, he met her eyes. They spoke not a word, but in that one moment, much was said between them.

Yes, there was something to worry about. There was everything to worry about. It seemed, however, for the good of them all, the Lord's commandment, "Thou shall not bear false witness," had been revoked.

---

*Sandpaper was patented in the U.S. in 1834, but in Europe "glass-paper," paper coated with tiny fragments of glass, was still used to smooth or abrade surfaces in this time period.