Two voices pierced through the depths of the darkness, stirring her awake.
One voice, familiar and serious. The other, hushed and imploring.
The darkness lessened it's hold.
Gradually, she began the climb to the surface.
Hazy, pink light filtered through her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, the world was still too bright, too real, too much.
She was in a strange room, lying in a strange bed beneath a thick blanket. Her mouth felt dry, her throat parched.
Two figures stood by the door. She squinted against the brightness, trying to register their faces.
"You cannot miss this opportunity, Monsieur." One of the figures was saying.
"I cannot leave her." The other responded. They were speaking quietly, their backs to her.
"Let Alphonse see to her wellbeing. The doctor did say she was on the mend." The first man continued, gesturing emphatically with his hands as he spoke. "You are about to get elected. This is what we have been working towards for months. Months!"
"She needs me here." The second man said firmly.
"Monsieur, listen to me. We must go to Paris and find you an apartment where you can stay while sessions are in."
"Sessions last for months at a time. I cannot be away from my wife that long."
"I'm sure Madame will understand."
"No, Guillaume. I cannot be away from her that long."
"What are you saying? That you're willing to throw this all away? After all our hard work?" The man's gesturing grew wider as he struggled to keep his voice at a whisper. "Is this not what you have dedicated your life to? This is the new revolution! This is your chance to make France what you and your friends always dreamt it could be. You can bring freedom to the masses!"
Silence.
"I understand how important she is to you, Monsieur. But she is one person. What about the rest of France? What about the suffering and the destitute? They await someone like you to come and fight on their behalf. How much longer must they wait for their liberation?"
More silence. She could feel the pull of the darkness again, but this time she fought it and waited to hear the response.
After several long moments, it came.
"I'm just one man, Guillaume. You really expect me to overturn a centuries-old political system overnight?"
"Perhaps not overnight –"
"How can I succeed in that, or anything at all, when I am so miserably failing in my marriage? I cannot even succeed in making my own wife happy. How do you expect me to make a whole nation of people happy?" There was a weariness in his voice that she felt in her bones.
"Monsieur…" There was a pause as the first man tread carefully with his next words. "Every relationship takes work. I'm sure you're not 'failing'."
"I'm the reason she's ill!" The biting words came out in a harsh whisper. "This is my fault!"
The rest of the conversation was lost to her as she concentrated on taking breath after deep breath.
He sounded angry.
He was giving up his dream because of her and he was angry.
She was ruining his future.
There was a cracking in her heart, a buried pain that blossomed to life again.
She shut her eyes and tuned the voices out.
Breath in.
This pain was unbearable.
Breath out.
Could she ever escape it?
Everything went dark again as she succumbed to the numbness of sleep.
Maybe we're two parts bound by the same thread
Was it you who said there was some good in me
Strong enough to heal some good in you
"Monsieur, she's awake."
Enjolras jolted up in his chair, rubbing the slumber from his eyes. He was in his study, had come there to try and focus on work, something to distract himself with. At some point he must've fallen asleep.
"She's awake." Enjolras repeated. Alphonse stood by the door, sporting a hopeful smile, and nodded.
Enjolras drew in a shaky breath, something within him lifting.
He'd all but flown to his bedroom, his feet barely touching the ground. When he opened the door, Cosette was there, lying in his bed as a maidservant adjusted the pillow beneath her head.
Her eyes were open.
Open and staring straight at him.
Relief flooded his being.
He thanked the maidservant and dismissed her. As soon as the door shut behind him, he rushed to Cosette's side.
"You're awake." He said dumbly, a laugh bubbling up inside him.
Cosette nodded, her face unusually solemn.
"How do you feel?" Enjolras asked, carefully brushing her hair out of her eyes. Those striking eyes he feared would never open again.
She tried to speak but no words came. He reached for a glass of water left on the nightstand and brought it to her lips, lifting her head so she could drink.
When her head was back on the pillow, she asked in a faint whisper, "How long have I been asleep?"
How he'd missed her voice. The sound of home.
"Several days." He replied, placing the glass back on the nightstand.
She observed the various objects and furniture around the bed.
"I take it this is your room?"
"Yes, I brought you here after your collapse in the garden."
She shut her eyes, as if the mention of the garden alone might send her back into the darkness she had just woken from. Enjolras held his breath, waiting for her to speak. To open her eyes once more.
Her breathing was slow and steady. Had she fallen back asleep?
"Cosette…about that night in the garden." He began, scratching the nape of his neck as he searched for the right words.
"He's right." Cosette whispered, interrupting.
He waited a beat.
"Who?"
She took another deep, steadying breath.
"Guillaume." She opened her eyes and turned towards him. "You shouldn't be here. You need to go Paris."
So she had overheard their conversation.
"Cosette, I'm not going to Paris."
"You must." Her brows crossed in concentration. "You must go and help the people."
"I can't leave you like this." I can't leave you ever.
"This is your dream, Enjolras. Don't let me hold you back from it." Her breathing was becoming labored, her words coming out as more of a croak than a whisper.
His jaw clenched. He stood up and walked to the window, running a hand through his curls.
Did he still want freedom for the people of France? Was this truly the best way to do so?
The lawmakers and politicians did not know much of his past. They thought he was one of them. And though he was loathe to admit it, he was one of them. He had grown up with the right pedigree, went to the right schools.
There was a chance he could turn their minds and hearts from within their own institution.
And if that works? What then?
What would have been the point of all your friends dying at the barricade? Dying for a dream that you instilled in them?
Enjolras sighed. What were dreams anyway? Just the silly fancies of young boys. Silly fancies that, if taken too seriously, led to martyrdom.
The gardens stretched out below him. Birds perched on tree branches and servants tended to the shrubs. The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky.
But he saw none of it.
"Come with me." He said quietly to his wife.
When Cosette didn't respond, he figured she hadn't heard him. But when he turned to her, she was looking at him with wide eyes.
"Come with me." He said again, approaching the bed.
"I…I can't." Her brows furrowed in confusion.
"We'll wait until you recover and then we can go to Paris. Together." Before he could think twice about it, he took hold of her hand. Her delicate fingers frail in his palm.
"Enjolras…" She licked her dry lips. "I don't know how long it will take for me to get better."
"We'll take things slow. You wouldn't have to do much walking. Our carriage can take you through most of the city. We can choose an apartment together." His heart raced in his chest.
Her eyes searched his, something like hope, like light, glimmering across her features.
It was there and gone.
She moved her hand away from his.
"Perhaps it would be best if you went alone." She sounded tired.
His thoughts ran frantic, trying to figure out the point in which he'd lost her in this conversation.
What had caused her to retreat? Did she not want to go with him? Was the idea that repulsive to her?
He tried to ignore the immediate sting in his heart.
"Cosette, I…"
What else was he to do? What else was he to say?
I am helplessly in love with you.
You, who cannot stand me.
And could he even blame her for not wanting to have anything to do with him?
Taking in a fortifying breath, he forced himself to press on.
"I will not go without you."
She turned her head back to him.
"Why do you wish for me to come?"
She held his gaze in challenge and his mouth went dry.
He knew the answer he wanted to give. The words were right on the tip of his tongue.
His heartbeat thundered and he wondered if she could hear it in the silence.
Say it, you coward.
A knock sounded on the door.
A strange mix of relief and regret washed over him as he got up to see who was here.
"Ah. Guillaume."
The man smiled and bowed his head.
"Good afternoon, Monsieur. I do not wish to intrude on a private moment, but I do need a final answer for the trip. The hotel manager needs a confirmation in order to hold our room reservations."
"Right." Enjolras suppressed a sigh. Perhaps he was foolish for missing such an opportunity. He doubted another would come his way. He glanced back at Cosette, laying there on his bed, too weak yet to even hold her head up. He could not imagine leaving this room. Could not imagine leaving her again.
It would be like trying to part with his very own heart.
"You may tell the manager that he can-"
"Can expect an extra addition to the party." Cosette interrupted with as loud a voice as she could muster.
Their gazes collided across the room.
"I will come." She told him firmly.
Enjolras' hand went slack on the doorknob.
"Excellent!" Guillaume exclaimed so that she could hear over the door.
"We will need some time," Enjolras said, turning back to Guillaume. "For Cosette to fully recover."
"Of course. How many days should I postpone the trip, then?"
Enjolras glanced at Cosette and she pursed her lips.
"A week." She said finally.
His eyebrows shot up. "You'll need more time than that."
She shook her head. "We'll leave in one week's time." She declared.
"I shall make the arrangements, Madame." Guillaume called.
"Thank you." Enjolras said and began to shut the door. Just before it closed, he leaned in and whispered, "Make sure to reserve us the biggest suite. And ask the hotel manager to fill the room with white flowers. Lilies, to be exact."
"Lilies. Of course, Monsieur."
"They're her favorites. I want the entire room brimming with them."
"Ah, Monsieur wishes to romance his lady? Do not worry, leave it all to me." Guillaume winked and went off on his way.
Enjolras shut the door, feeling his face redden at Guillaume's implications, hoping Cosette hadn't overheard.
She had closed her eyes, a pained expression on her face.
"What do you need?" He asked, sitting beside her on the bed. "Water? A cool cloth? I can send for food, if you're hungry." He touched his fingers to her forehead to check for a fever. "You're not heating up, that's good news. Are you cold? Do you need another blanket? Maybe I should have Dr. Benoit come check on you again."
She opened her eyes and looked at him strangely, her mouth tilting up in almost a smile.
Gently, she shook her head.
"No need to call the physician. Food will do. I'm famished."
Whatever else she had need of over the course of the following days, Enjolras was there to provide it.
In-between long stretches of sleep, she would wake to him ready to feed her soup or to change her pillow or give her water. At night, he would doze off while sitting beside the bed, one hand outstretched and clasping her own. Other times she found find him asleep on the floor in a makeshift bed of blankets and scattered pillows.
It was then that she allowed herself small moments of indulgence and simply stared at him. Taking in his unkempt curls, the sharp lines of his face, the growing stubble along his jaw. Watched the way his chest rose and fell as he slept, wondering how it would feel to tuck her head into the crook of his neck, how it would feel to be encircled in his arms.
In the moments that he fell asleep holding her hand, she would play with his fingers. Softly, so as not to wake him. Memorizing the curve of each knuckle, the plains of his palm, with her touch. Stealing these small moments whenever she could because she was still, despite everything, in love with this entirely frustrating and confusing man.
She did not ask him again why he wished for her to come. She could see he was not ready to give her an answer. And perhaps it was better for her not to hear it. There was a part of her that was afraid of what he would say.
He felt guilty, she could sense that. Perhaps he blamed himself for everything that had led up to the confrontation in the garden. Their argument in the dining room, his coldness during the ball…
But guilt was not love.
She did not want him bringing her along to Paris out of guilt.
That, she could not stand.
But was it also guilt that had him staying by her side, day after day, as she slowly regained her strength? Was it guilt that made him reach for her hand when he thought she had fallen asleep?
Perhaps Paris would bring answers.
