(AN –I'm so sorry about the late-ness, short-ness and all round rubbish-ness of this chapter I've been run off my feet last week!

A Note from Joly – Joly would like to thank all who did notice that he wasn't dead, he would also like to thank all of you who have been concerned for his welfare, including those who went so far as to PM me begging for his safe return…I may just listen, depends if you read and review Mwa Ha Ha!

Chapter 16 - Looking back & Looking Forwards

Henri Enjolras cast his newspaper aside with an irritated huff and took another sip of his coffee. The students of Paris had rebelled just as they had threated. The thought that his son had been involved crossed his mind, just as it had when he first heard of the unrest in the city. He was, after all, his mother's son, and most likely had been front and centre of the action.

To his surprise, Henri felt a pang of distress as it occurred to him that his son was probably dead.

"I suppose you're happy now, father," he said bitterly to the air, "now that I am quite alone in the world. All the hard work in my life shall amount to nothing because I now have no heir. Was that your plan all along, bitter and twisted old man that you were? Is that why you cursed me with such a useless wife? Why couldn't you have allowed me to be happy?"

The memory of his ex-lover's face swam into his mind—Mademoiselle Boufort. He found that he dwelt on her more and more often these days. Even though it had been twenty four years since he had last seen her, he could picture her more clearly than many of his recent acquaintances.

He often wondered if he haunted her dreams the way she haunted his. He both feared and longed for sleep, for the moment when she would dance before his eyes once more. Her auburn wavy hair would shine in the sun and her dark oval eyes would stare into his once more. When he slept, he relived their youthful days together, and even now the memories caused a physical ache in his very core.

But when the time had come, she had chosen money over him. Henri bitterly remembered the day he had found the evidence of the betrayal by his father, who had paid her off to leave him. His temper had gotten the better of him on that occasion. He had broken with his father and had ceased speaking to him. But it was Henri's actions towards her when he found out that he regretted most. He had not confronted her like a gentleman; he had hidden behind hired thugs and… he shuddered at the thought.

He rang the bell for Pascal, the only member of his staff that he trusted.

Perhaps, he mused, as he waited for the old servant to make his way there, it was time to let the past go and make amends for his actions. He was alone and he needed someone; he needed to find her again.

"Yes, Monsieur?" Pascal questioned as he arrived, interrupting Henri's thoughts. Henri pulled a piece of paper towards himself and scribbled down two names. He paused, reconsidered, and added a third.

"Pascal, this is the name of one of the most notorious private eyes in Paris. You are to find him and give him this woman's name. Instruct him to discover her current name and find out where she is."

Pascal nodded, and Henri caught the way he eyed the third name.

"Ah...yes..." he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You might as well ask him to see if there is any news of Marceline."

~X~

In the week that followed the fall of the barricade, Enjolras struggled with his feelings of despair. Eponine's miraculous survival served as his only consolation to the losses of his friends. He wanted to tell her how pleased he was that she was alive, but every time he looked at her he was hit by the guilt that she had been in harm's way in the first place. This led him to remember his other friends who had not been as fortunate as her, and his downward spiral would continue.

She had looked curiously at him the few times he had approached her and suddenly turned on his heel, returning to the room Musichetta had assigned him.

Today, a small pinprick had appeared in his cloud of despair. For the first time, he had realised that the ill-fitting clothes Musichetta had lent him had once belonged to Joly. It had been enough of a jolt to his conscience to motivate him into action.

He walked quickly into the living room where Eponine was sitting with her legs crossed, slowly working her way through the simpler tasks in Musichetta's box of mending that she took in to supplement the wages she earned as a seamstress's assistant.

Eponine jumped at his sudden arrival, jamming the needle into her finger.

"Merde!*" she exclaimed, placing the offending finger into her mouth. Her startled eyes took in his appearance and a frown appeared on her forehead. "What are you doing?" she asked, puzzled.

"I must return to my own flat..."

Eponine was on her feet before he could complete his sentence, the half mended gown abandoned on the floor. She stood in front of the door way as if she stood a chance of stopping him should he have tried to move her.

"You're not leaving this flat, Enjolras, and you are most definitely not going anywhere, especially dressed like that," she admonished.

"I have every intention of returning. It is because I am dressed like this that I need to go to my own flat. I cannot stand to wear Joly's clothes another minute. It... it is too painful."

The fiercely defensive set of her face softened at his words; she was silent for a moment before she spoke again in a much gentler voice. "Even so, you cannot go out dressed like that."

Enjolras sighed and slumped down onto the sofa, defeated. She was right, of course—he had dressed himself in the only clothes he had with him. They were the same he had worn on the day of the barricade; the red jacket he had tailored especially for the occasion clearly stated his involvement with the revolution. If there was any doubt, however, the fact that the clothes were ripped and blood stained would give him away. The small glimmer of motivation disappeared. He slumped forwards, placing his head in his hands, wondering how he would even muster up the energy to return to his room, when he felt the cushion of the sofa shift beside him.

A small hand briefly touched his fore arm. He missed the warmth from it as it was snatched away as quickly as she had placed it there. Enjolras looked up then to see that the hand was now folded together with her other one, sitting neatly in her lap.

"It's good to see you up today."

"I don't deserve to be here," he whispered.

"Please don't speak like that."

"It's the truth. I can't stand waking up each morning, knowing that I am alive when they are dead."

She tilted her head and looked at him contemplatively. "You find it hardest to wake up. Strange, I find it hardest to go sleep."

He looked into her face. He had been so wrapped up in his own anguish, he had forgotten that Eponine had been through a lot as well.

"I'm sorry—it is all my fault. You should never have been in that situation."

"I was there of my own free will, Enjolras, as was every other person at the barricade. You told me that yourself. You cannot blame yourself now."

"I was arrogant, Eponine. I was overconfident, I dreamed of a bright new tomorrow. I was so conceited; I thought I could change the world and I dragged everyone down with me."

"No, no, Enjolras. Those men, your friends, my brother—they all believed in the bright new world as well! They believed in it so much that they were willing to lay down their lives for it. We should not be sorry for them, we should be proud of them."

He wanted to believe her so much, but he felt guilty for even allowing her words to begin to penetrate the black bubble he had created around himself.

"How can you be so sure, so positive, after everything?"

She smiled at him. "Because I believe in all the things you said. Because it is not our tragedies that define us, it is the way we rise up from them that makes us who we are. I don't expect everything to be better for you straight away, but I'm not going anywhere until it is. You will make your friends proud. You are destined to make this world a better place. I am certain of that."

He didn't know if it was her faith in him that moved him the most, or if it was the fact that she used his mother's own words. But she said exactly what he needed to hear as only Eponine could have. Acting on impulse, he took her hand that into his own and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

She jumped at his touch and pulled her hand away, looking at him with startled eyes. A dark blush coloured her cheeks, though not as dark as Enjolras's own. A strange prickling feeling lingered on his lips where they had made contact with her skin.

"I'm sorry, I…" he trailed off embarrasedly.

"It's nothing," she stood up abruptly. "If you write me a list of the items you require from your flat, I can get them for you. I will be quicker and raise less suspicion than you."

"Yes, you're right," he said, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness. He fetched some paper and hurriedly scribbled a list of the items required. Eponine snatched it out of his hand and rushed out the door. Enjolras found himself staring at the space she had been standing in long after she had left.

Translation

Merde* - Shit

(AN2 – On another note, I've recently discovered Tumblr! What a brilliant site it is! So I was browsing on there and found a graphic by someone called Eploras (your amazing) of this story! Cue lots of dancing around like a Mad Thing. So I decided to join, my page is called AnneMarie's Tumblr (The AnneMarie Posts – tumblr made me have it) I honestly have no idea what I'm doing on there so please come find me and help a techno-phobe out, would love to be able to connect with you all on there!

PS. Chap 17 is almost done and will be up soon, I promise it will make up from rubbish-ness of this one! MAJOR Joly progress, Montparnasse will rear his head and some E&E progress Yay! Until next time…)