Disclaimer: They're STILL not mine…

Author's Notes: OooOooOo, reviews! Eponinenkind: Erk! I knew I'd spelt Thenardier wrong! If I have time, I will go back and change it. The Lark: I wish I could give this a happy ending! Maybe I'll just throw the idea out the window and have Fantine, Valjean and Cosette to go live in a big house in the country : ). I have a feeling I'd get flamed though. Rosie: Don't worry! This story will be finished, it always annoys e when you see a good fanfic…and it hasn't been updated for about two years : ). Happy Hobo – I know that chapter was very book-copish, I may go back and edit it later. I'll try not to make the other chapters like that. Marzoog: I don't know how and can't give it a sad ending. The poor woman does die after all. If you have an idea though, I'd like to hear it : ). I'll have to look out for more L.M.Montogomery books, I really liked "Anne of Green Gables" and it's sequels. Estella Havisham: Wow, thank you! I would have made Victor proud? *blushes* Well….the award for the nicest review EVER goes to Estella! *hands Estella an award*

Well this chapter is for the girl who sent me a very long and persuasive e-mail telling me to write another chapter catching up on poor Enjy. So here it is!

As they tear your hope apart

The walk home was terrible, my poor Cosette would never of made it. I took regular intervals, to sleep in ditches, and was "home" in about three days. Instead of walking through town I took the prettier route through the woods, and saw something that jerked me from thoughts of my aching feet.

I'd forgotten about it really, so much had happened in the past few years that I wouldn't have remembered a house. It still stood there, on top of the hill proudly looking down on the town. Still white with majestic columns. And. I guessed, still the Enjolras house.

As much as I willed my feet to continue straight on, I turned up the cart path. The same one I'd caught my ride to Paris from.

"Father!" a girl's voice cried, and I ducked behind a tree. Two girls passed, almost in front of me. Both blonde, both petite – I guessed they were the twins, Yvette and Cecile. Six years old now!

They didn't notice me, and continued their walk up towards the house – where a man stood waiting for them. Monsieur Enjolras. His golden hair was greying, he stood with a slight stoop, but still struck fear into me.

He smiled as he embraced his daughters, then they made their way to a small alcove of trees near to where I was standing. They disappeared inside, then reappeared looking solemn. All three then returned to the house.

I came out from behind the tree, and went into the alcove. It was a grave. I choked – not wanting to look in case it was Marcelin.

Christine Enjolras 1787-1815

Beloved mother to Marcelin, Yvette and Cecile

In front of the headstone lay three pink roses, and one purple iris. I stood still, in shock. How had she died? Why wasn't "dearly missed wife of – " written on her headstone below mother?

I was still pondering this when a boy screamed from behind me. I spun, and ran out of the alcove.

There was a boy, about ten or eleven years old, curled in a ball on the floor screaming while Monsieur Enjolras stood above him – shouting obscenities and kicking him in the stomach.

The boy had golden hair…was skinny for his age…I gasped. It was Marcelin. Poor Marcelin who I should have taken with me.

Someone called Monsieur Enjolras to the house, he gave Marcelin one last kick and strode up towards it.

Marcelin stayed crouched where he was, whimpering softly. I wandered up to him and touched his shoulder. "Marcelin?"

He flinched, and finally looked up at me – revealing a hideous black and yellow bruise which covered the left side of his face. He blinked, and his eyes were full of confusion.

"I should have taken you with me" I said under my breath.

Those same big blue eyes studied my face intently, as though he recognised me but wasn't sure where from. He still said nothing, not moving from his curled position.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked gently.

There was one more quick scan of my face, and he shook his head. A silent gesture that brought tears to my eyes.

"I don't" he spoke finally, more mature than the voice I remembered. Seeing my tears, he added "I'm sorry. But I don't".

I shook my head. "Why would you? It was years ago, you were only five then. I used to work here, some time ago. I used to look after you and…where is Marie?"

"Marie?" he asked. "I don't know a – "

I covered my ears. Why didn't he remember?

He propped himself up on one arm, "I'm sorry. Again"

"It's fine" I told him. Changing the subject I asked "how did your mother die?"

"She fell" he said, his voice showing no emotion. "Out of the window of my father's study."

At the coldness of his tone, I began "But you and your mother were always so close. I remember –"

"I don't" he interrupted. Then shyly he asked "could you help me up? I don't think I could manage alone."

I smiled, snaked an arm around his waist and helped him up. He winced briefly, then studied my face again.

"If you don't mind me saying so, you don't look well" he said.

"I know" I replied dryly. "And you don't either."

His hand went to the bruise on the side of his face. "Sometimes my father – I ask for it really."

"You don't!" I cried. "You should stand up for yourself Marcelin..don't let him –"

Recognition flooded his eyes. "Someone used to say that to me. A long time ago. When I was about five, as I remember. And she left. On a cart. And her name was.."

I looked at him hopefully.

"Fantine" he said.

I laughed, and flung my arms around his neck. "I knew you'd remember me!"

He grinned. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty two" I told him. "With a daughter. Cosette. How old are you?"

"Twelve" he said.

"Twelve!" I exclaimed. "why, it seems like –"

"MARCELIN!" a male voice bellowed. "Where are you boy?"

Marcelin jumped. "It's –"

Monsieur Enjolras was by our side in eight quick strides. In a flash he had hold of my wrists, and had spun me to face him.

"Father!" Marcelin protested. "Don't!"

A well-aimed blow to his already bruised stomach sent Marcelin stumbling to the floor.

"I remember you" Monsieur sneered. "That urchin girl with no last name. Come back have you?." He surveyed my clothes. "Fallen on hard times and need a job?"

I shook my head. "I just came to see Marcelin."

"Kindly be on your way" he gestured to the cart path. "I have enough urchins working for me as it is". He turned to his son. "Come on boy."

Marcelin scrambled to his feet and gave me a terrified look.

"Kindly.Be.On.Your.Way" Monsieur repeated.

Defeated I turned. I was halfway to the cart path when I heard a cry from behind me.

"Fantine! Fantine, you should have taken me with you! After you left… Marie and I – yes I remember her. She was so kind to me. But only a week after you left she disappeared Fantine! Dismissed I bet!". There was a sound of running footsteps and Marcelin was beside me. "Take me with you! I can find work, I can provide for you and your daughter! Fantine please don't leave me here!"

"Boy.." Monsieur threatened, walking towards us.

Just as he'd done all those years ago, Marcelin pulled at my skirts. Even though he was small for his age he was strong and held me from going any further.

"Don't leave me" he screeched, his voice cracking. "This bruise isn't the worst thing he's done!"

"Boy.." Monsieur appeared behind him and with one reeling blow sent me falling to the ground. Gasping, I lay flat on the floor as he caught hold of Marcelin.

"Fantine!" he scrambled for me, but to no avail. His father was dragging him away. "I'll come to Paris!" he yelled. "I'll find you! I'll remember what you used to tell me!"

And, before I could tell him I was no longer in Paris, he was gone. And I never saw him again.

And so, with a newly acquired black eyes, I arrived at the town. As I'd thought, it was easy to find work. No-one remembered me (why would they?), but the new mayor had a factory where I quickly found a job. The work was new to me, and difficult. The pay was not much, but small as it was, it bought me a living.