My arms do not like me, but I need to write Les Mis fics, so here's one I dug up. It's one of my first Les Mis fics ever, though I did patch it up a bit. ;) For those who care, the ships I allude to are Bahorel/OC, Combeferre/OC, Joly/Musichetta, Courfeyrac/OC, one-sided Jehan/Éponine, and one-sided OC/Jehan.
Enjoy!
Much love,
Unicadia
The relentless June Sun beat down upon the Paris cemetery and the black-clad group standing in it.
The parents had already made their farewells; the younger generation now came forward. Brothers and sisters, friends and lovers. The last four girls knelt by the gravestones.
The youngest of them, a delicate girl of eighteen, carefully arranged the flowers around a stone, her hands trembling. She tried not to think . . . two more weeks, just two more weeks, and she would have been a wife.
The next youngest handed her newborn daughter to her mother-in-law. Her eyes were dry and her mind numb. She knelt down by another stone and stroked it, almost as if she were stroking his hair again . . .
The third girl couldn't stop weeping. She fell at a stone, her head in her hands. Those close to her heard her say between sobs, "Oh, why didn't you propose to me? Didn't you love me? Oh, I know you . . . why did you wait? I would have gone with you to the ends of the earth . . ."
The last girl, the eldest, wiped her eyes on her handkerchief, and fingered the necklace at her throat. She had given it to him . . . before it happened. Now it was hers again.
Finally someone dragged the sobbing girl to her feet and the group drifted away. But the last girl still remained in the cemetery beneath the June sun. She sat down in the grass and stared at the stones. At least nine young men, a boy, an old man, and a girl . . .
She sat straighter as she heard the sound of running feet. Turning, she saw a young girl, fifteen or so, race across the grass towards her. She clutched a white rose in her right hand. She stopped when she saw the older girl. "Hello."
"Hello."
"Did I miss the funeral?"
"Yes."
The younger girl suddenly blushed. "I-I'm just here to say goodbye." She crouched by the stone at the end, kissed the rose, and then laid it down next to the small bunch of flowers left there by his parents.
"Jean Prouvaire?" said the older girl.
"Yes." The younger's blush deepened. "He didn't know me though. He loved her -" and she pointed to the gravestone of the girl who had fallen.
"How did you know?" asked the elder, surprised. Jean Prouvaire, romantic though he had been, had never shown interest in any singular girl.
The younger smiled. "If you love someone, you just know."
The elder cast down her eyes. "Yes, I know."
"Who?"
"Henri Courfeyrac." She looked up and attempted a smile. "I'm sorry. I'm Mirielle Lavoie. And you?"
"Danielle Pierre." She approached Mirielle. "May I?"
"Of course."
Danielle sat down next to Mirielle in the grass. A tiny breeze whispered past their ears and in between the stones as the June sun stared down on the Paris cemetery and the two black-clad girls.