by Mori
A/N: Alas, this short fanfic was written to complement the "Don't you fret" picture. Before Andi nags me to do this [;P], I must give her credit. She said she was going to write a fanfic for that picture, and being bored, so did I. I'm not sure if she actually has, though Although somehow, I suspect it'll be a humorous one. ^.^; I warn you that I haven't yet read the majority of the battle in the book, only Éponine's death, and I refuse to skip forward and read it, because I refuse to ruin the story for myself. Thus, I must make-do with what I have, so please don't get on me for inaccuracy. Disclaimer: Les Misérables is not mine, and I did not write most of the dialogue, least of all the italic bit at the top.
"Is that what you want?"
"Yes."
"Do you know them?"
"No."
"In other words," she said sharply, and with a hint
of bitterness, "you don't know her, and you want to?"
It's always the rich girls, isn't it? I can feel the letter in my pocket, but I'm trying not to think about it. When I do, I have to fight everything just to keep from ripping it to pieces and scattering its remains across the street. But I'm a strong girl, so I don't.
We're all going to die tonight - I sense it. You know how you're always sure to wake up in bed the next day? A feeling that you can always count on that, at least? It's all hazy for me. I'm going to lay my head down tonight, and I'm going to sleep forever. If only I had the one thing I wanted - one thing, by God, don't I deserve just one thing to make me happy?
I hear gunshots now, and wonder how long it will take for a bullet to find its way into my heart. I can't say that I'm reluctant to die. What is there to live for? Every day is a struggle, and I'm only content when I think of him. But now, when I think of him, I think of her. There isn't any comfort for me, anymore.
The air is thick with the stench of smoke and blood and gunpowder, dragged down by screams of agony and jerked upwards by harsh commands. Amidst it all, where is he? I stumble and fall, scraping my elbow on a rock, but I can't feel it. There are already so many scratches and bruises, so why should I care about one more? I see a gun laying several feet off. I reach for it - having one is always better than not. Men are running, shooting, yelling, but they don't notice me. Not this black form crawling across the ground, stretching out for a gun. Maybe they think I'm already dead.
Clasping the gun, I try to get back on my feet. A worker hurries past, knocking me down. Never mind, I can crawl. Won't waste time in getting up. Oh, and - there he is! Walking. I am quick, scrabbling across the ground, and he is slow. A musket is aimed at him, and I almost cry out in dismay. No! He can't die, not now. Before I can think, my hand is stretching for the musket. Blocking it. A searing pain, and the bullet passes through my hand. Why did I do it? My chest burns too, but I don't make a sound. I'm going to die, but I don't think I want to.
And now I crawl because I can't walk. I call his name, and he looks wildly around. How it hurts. Doesn't he see me?
"I'm at your feet," I say. He looks at me, at last, but his eyes are distant. I grit my teeth. Trying to forget my pain. They say that looking into the eyes of one's lover will heal anything, but it can't be true. At least not for me; the pain only doubles. "Don't you recognize me?"
"No," he says. Looking afraid now. I can feel the letter in my pocket.
"Éponine," I tell him, and he bends down to make sure. Of course, with my ugly face and boy's clothing, how could he have recognized me?
"How do you come to be here? What are you doing?"
"I'm dying." Well, it's truth but the first question remains unanswered. I don't remember anymore. The gun in my hand is all I can feel. That, and the letter in my pocket. No, no, no! It can't be. But then it dawns on me - a way to know for sure. And now that I explore the possibilities, my mind intoxicated with pain, I realize that I can't rest in peace until
But can I?
He is talking, but I don't hear him. I try to stand, but I can't. My whole being throbs with pain, but I grit my teeth and bear it. Alarmed, he looks at me. Reaches out for me, and touches my hand. It's too much. I choke out a cry of pain.
"Did I hurt you?"
The words are on the tip of my tongue. Always, I answer him, but not aloud. Oh, how many times I had lost myself in fantasies, wanting to show him how much he did hurt me, how much I loved him anyway. Talking to him - but no, I'm wrong, it had always been myself. Always, but I bear it like everything else. "A little."
He opens his mouth, and speaks. No more words, I scream. Silently. I am going to die soon. No more words. I draw myself to my knees, and the pain becomes unbearable. I can't breathe. I might faint. Gritting my teeth, I fling my arms out, throwing them around him. I have to do it! - I have him now. His face is confused, agonized, troubled. My heart breaks a thousand times, and if I had the strength, I would let him go and die alone.
"Don't you fret, Monsieur Marius" I let go, only a little. He relaxes, and stays at my side. Safe? Not in the slightest. The gun is by his head now, but he can't see it. I'm glad he can't. "You won't feel any pain."
I gasp, because I can feel another bullet go into my arm. It falls limp, but despite all the blood and hurt, I am smiling. My finger is still tightened around the trigger, and my wounded hand is in my pocket. Wrapped tightly around the letter, soaking it in my blood, crumpling it. Destroying the letter from Cosette.
Finally I can close my eyes. For the first time in my life, I am truly satisfied. Was I in the wrong? It doesn't matter, and it never will. Because finally, we lay together. Motionless, side by side, as he follows me into death.