Disclaimer: Uh-huh. Hugo is an insane teenage girl who lives in 2004. Of
course he is. Actually, I don't own it. Flames will be used to burn the
barricade, and we DON'T want that!! Noooooooo! The barricade! Ahhhhhh!
(runs and jumps off a bridge)
Measles
She lies there, unable to move, unable to breathe, a six-year-old on the verge of tears. Cold fever-sweat slides down her burning face, as she curls her blankets tighter around her. It is late, and her mother, her constant companion for four days, sleeps; the hours of silent vigil have caught up to her at last. It is the fist time the woman has prayed since childhood; her daughter is precious, and the measles have attacked her lungs, her face, and her brain. But Eponine cannot sleep like her mother has, she is too sick, and too afraid to die if she could sleep anyway.
Suddenly, a violent wave of coughs assaults her, causing her to curl up tightly in a ball, her throat and lungs on fire. And now she does cry, dry, racking sobs between coughs, with tears mingling with the sweat.
And someone else hears.
Moments later after the coughs have subsided slightly, which makes the tears grow even stronger, Eponine sees the ghost. A small girl, perhaps Eponine's own age, comes. Her face is pale and her hair is dark and tangled. Her clothes are equally black, her cheeks gaunt and eyes hollow. Eponine knows who it is.
It's Death.
She shies away as best she can, ducking under the covers. In all the stories she's ever read, Death came as a gamine, or a large hooded man, scythe in hand, and it takes your hand and takes you to heaven. But the stories never talk of Death carrying a bucket, or creeping forward to the dying like a scared rabbit.
And the coughs come again, worse than ever, and she shakes in agony, and something comes out of her mouth, onto the white sheets, dark in the candlelight.
And Death approaches, and Eponine can see that its eyes are blue and haunted, and--/It's not death./ It's just the Lark—what was her name? Cosette. Yes. It's just Cosette.
"Ponine?" she asks shyly. Eponine says nothing. She can hardly talk, and she's afraid Cosette came to kill her—she never did treat the serving girl very well. But mostly it's the fact that there's blood on the sheets, and in her mouth, and she can feel it trickle down her throat. Cosette lifts the bucket and says quietly, "I heard you coughing. I brought you some water."
Gently the little girl helps her torturer sit up, and then takes a ladle and fills it with water, and helps Eponine sip from it. And she drinks, the cool water soothing her throat and lungs and cooling her entire body.
Cosette sits down on the bed, and puts a rag on Eponine's forehead, and gives her more water, and they almost look like sisters for a moment, not bully and victim.
After a moment, Eponine takes Cosette's hand. "Thank you," she says hoarsely. "Thank you." And lays her head back down on her pillow, and sleeps, for the first time in days. Cosette slowly puts her head on the pillow as well, and falls into slumber herself.
And the Thénardiess watches all this with wide eyes full of wonder.
Measles
She lies there, unable to move, unable to breathe, a six-year-old on the verge of tears. Cold fever-sweat slides down her burning face, as she curls her blankets tighter around her. It is late, and her mother, her constant companion for four days, sleeps; the hours of silent vigil have caught up to her at last. It is the fist time the woman has prayed since childhood; her daughter is precious, and the measles have attacked her lungs, her face, and her brain. But Eponine cannot sleep like her mother has, she is too sick, and too afraid to die if she could sleep anyway.
Suddenly, a violent wave of coughs assaults her, causing her to curl up tightly in a ball, her throat and lungs on fire. And now she does cry, dry, racking sobs between coughs, with tears mingling with the sweat.
And someone else hears.
Moments later after the coughs have subsided slightly, which makes the tears grow even stronger, Eponine sees the ghost. A small girl, perhaps Eponine's own age, comes. Her face is pale and her hair is dark and tangled. Her clothes are equally black, her cheeks gaunt and eyes hollow. Eponine knows who it is.
It's Death.
She shies away as best she can, ducking under the covers. In all the stories she's ever read, Death came as a gamine, or a large hooded man, scythe in hand, and it takes your hand and takes you to heaven. But the stories never talk of Death carrying a bucket, or creeping forward to the dying like a scared rabbit.
And the coughs come again, worse than ever, and she shakes in agony, and something comes out of her mouth, onto the white sheets, dark in the candlelight.
And Death approaches, and Eponine can see that its eyes are blue and haunted, and--/It's not death./ It's just the Lark—what was her name? Cosette. Yes. It's just Cosette.
"Ponine?" she asks shyly. Eponine says nothing. She can hardly talk, and she's afraid Cosette came to kill her—she never did treat the serving girl very well. But mostly it's the fact that there's blood on the sheets, and in her mouth, and she can feel it trickle down her throat. Cosette lifts the bucket and says quietly, "I heard you coughing. I brought you some water."
Gently the little girl helps her torturer sit up, and then takes a ladle and fills it with water, and helps Eponine sip from it. And she drinks, the cool water soothing her throat and lungs and cooling her entire body.
Cosette sits down on the bed, and puts a rag on Eponine's forehead, and gives her more water, and they almost look like sisters for a moment, not bully and victim.
After a moment, Eponine takes Cosette's hand. "Thank you," she says hoarsely. "Thank you." And lays her head back down on her pillow, and sleeps, for the first time in days. Cosette slowly puts her head on the pillow as well, and falls into slumber herself.
And the Thénardiess watches all this with wide eyes full of wonder.
