Everything is dizzy as her feet fall out under her, soaked with blood and rain. Arms catch her body before she smashes against the barricades. She is dragged down the wooden jungle of terror as shouting continues in the distance. Nothing quite makes sense to her right now, and her eyesight is hazy. She sees a lot of red, and occasionally sees a man's face hovering above hers.

"She'll be fine, Joly, tell her that she'll be fine!" A cracked voice pleads. She knows the voice. She fought for that voice, and she'll fight again to hear it before she leaves.

"Marius..?" She croaks out, lifting a blood-soaked hand to his cheek. He instinctively cringes back, terrified of all the blood dripping from it, before he notices her hurt expression. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wraps it around her hand, and gingerly rests his hand on it. She sighed in contentment.

"Oh, 'Ponine, oh how could this happen?" He whispered, in a voice filled with regret.

Her eyes fights to stay open, black dots are dancing over her eyelids. The longer she fights, the more pain she feels in her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a beckoning light, a friendly hand reaching out to her, but how could she take it when Marius, her Marius, is crying over her? She had to ask him before she left. She must.

"Oh Marius, please," she broke into a violent coughing fit, blood spilling from the corners of her mouth. She knew she didn't have much time left. "Marius, did you ever," she gurgled over more blood, choking over her words, "Love me?"

She managed to get her final words out. She did all she ever wanted, she could die in peace now. Let the warm blood run through her throat, and spill out her bleeding heart. A smile graced her crimson lips. Much more red than those silly colors the rich girls like Cosette painted over their lips. They would be envious to see how gorgeous she looked on this death bed of hers. A piece of art, she thought. The rain bathed the dirt off her body and her skin paled to a milky aristocratic glow.

Marius looked at her dying body. Battered, and bruised as always. Stained with red blood, which spurted out of her mouth like a fountain, she looked positively grotesque. Her skin was pale and he could see her veins and ribs sticking through her wet shirt. A skeleton bride of the revolution, he thought as a tear fell onto her body, ripped open and torn apart. He knew that he could give no answer but the truth.

"Oh Eponine, you'll always be a friend to me, but never have I thought of you as more. Cosette is my one true love, and I will always have you to thank for that. Eponine, you have given me my love, and I know I'll never feel such a way about any other. And forever and ever, we shall give thanks to you," he grinned, knowing that she would feel great to hear this. How could she be sad when she knew that she had brought two soulmates together?

Then, Eponine knew. She knew that she lived her life entirely wrong. She knew she would die miserable because of that one sentence, and she knew that she could never speak another word, and the last thing she'd ever see would be Marius's lovesick grin, and she couldn't even pretend this time, she knew it was for Cosette. Tears leaked out of her eyes, and she took a few staggering last breaths, as her life faded away. In her last breath, she felt a gasp of air through the blood leaking through her lips.

"No..love…," she breathed as the blood choked her up again. Wasn't dying supposed to be quick? Why did this feel like forever? Her eyes slipped shut, in hope of a quicker release as agony overtook her.

"No," a voice to her side said. Her eye opened a crack, and she saw Enjolras moving closer, and laying a few hesitant fingers on her shoulder. "You'll die loved, you lived loved," an odd look crossed as face as me lowered his head, "There is always love," he said to her. Her eyes slid shut again.

Oh, Enjolras, I wish it all had ended differently.

Eponine's pulse stopped. Her body was carried away.

Enjolras knew that he loved her from the start. Her heart beat as his, always alight with hope and passion. She was beautiful, even in death, and she was what he fought for. She was France, and she was hope, and she was the sunrise over the Seine on those long summer days, and she was the laugh and cheer in the meetings at the ABC, and she was the red of the flag he gripped through gritty fingers as the bullets ran through his chest, and flew out the open window.

She was his revolution. She never thought to look at him.