Chapter Nine - Night of Anguish
DramaRose13: Ahh I was too! I was so terrified writing this and also laughing my ass off because you guys are going to be as scared as I was.
Smiles1998: I replied to you through PM, in case you hadn't read it yet :)
Disclaimer: All character and novel rights belong to Victor Hugo. Song lyrics belong to the creators of Les Misérables, the musical. I own nothing except for my own imagination.
It happened right as the sun began to set.
"Do you hear that?" Enjolras was up within the blink of an eye, hand on his carbine.
"Hear what?" Éponine and Combeferre stood up as well.
"I think it's marching."
Just then, the voice of a child rang out, singing loudly and happily:
"My nose is in tears,
My good friend Bugeaud*,
Just lend me your spears,
To tell them my woe.
In blue cassimere**,
Hen on the shako,
The banlieue is here!
Co-co-corico!"
It was Gavroche, singing the old folk tune "Au Clair de la Lune".
Combeferre's hand shot out and grabbed Enjolras' forearm. They looked at each other, eyes bright, both knowing what this meant.
"He's warning us," Combeferre said, thinking over the words of the song.
"Gavroche," Éponine breathed, not hearing the two men, running to the opening to see her brother break into a sprint, pelting down the street.
"They're here! They're coming! Give me my musket!" Gavroche cried, climbing nimbly over a bus and under a couch to slide into the barricade.
The barricade exploded into action. Suddenly people were clapping each other on the back, drawing out guns and loading extra ones. They exchanged words of encouragement and banter, smiles lighting up their faces in a savage delight. The men who didn't have their muskets approached the rack of weaponry. Éponine, heart thumping in her chest, grabbed a few and tossed them to them.
She reached for one as well, but a voice stopped her.
"No," the voice ordered. Her hand froze and she glared at Enjolras. Hadn't he learned by now that he couldn't stop her from being in the barricade?
"What do you mean, "no"? I can fight-"
"We need you reloading the muskets and issuing fresh munitions to the others when they have need of it," he said, holstering a second pistol onto his belt.
Éponine frowned, but let her arm fall to her side. "Fine," she muttered, unhappy but obliging.
"Thank you," said Enjolras sincerely, and he pushed his way through the crowd, Éponine following close behind.
Everybody took a post. Combeferre, Enjolras, Bahorel, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Gavroche, and Courfeyrac formed a line at the very front, with Enjolras in the middle. Éponine crouched behind Enjolras and Courfeyrac so she could receive their muskets or carbines after they fired them.
They could see the guards now. As they rounded the corner, more and more came into view. The sound of marching resounded across the street to the barricade, and it was deafening. There were so many men that they did not all fit into the narrow road, and the troops stretched on and on, seeming to go on forever. She heard Bossuet let out a shaky breath.
"Hold your fire," commanded Enjolras, quiet but clearly audible.
Éponine looked up at the man of marble and recalled the myths regarding the invulnerable Greek gods. Except, she knew, however strong he seemed, he was still agonisingly mortal. She was struck with deep desperation, one that shook her to the core. There was going to be a battle, and some would fall. And she didn't want him to fall. She couldn't let him fall. She reached out a trembling hand and lightly touched his shoulder.
His golden head swiveled around and light blue met dark amber.
He felt her palm on his shoulder and his immediate reaction was to yell and shake her off, then demand her to lock herself up in a closet somewhere in the shop and not come out until it was safe outside. Instead he turned his face around and looked down at her.
"Please don't die," Éponine said in a small voice. He was struck by the fear in her eyes, and realised that it was fear for him. That hit him with overwhelming force. There was the rushing sensation again, and he felt himself plummet further into the abyss. He was so far down now that he knew there was no going back.
Her olive skin shone a gorgeous honey, lit up by the moonlight. Her warm honey-amber eyes sent waves of intoxicating vigour through him, pricking at the back of his neck and sending shivers down his spine. She was the most beautiful in the lunar light, he decided. Éponine was a creature of the night, blending in effortlessly with the shadows, and yet she emanated an unearthly glow when she finally stepped into the radiance of the light. She was the most perfectly flawed, magnificent thing he'd ever seen.
He thought maybe he was a little bit in love with her, after all.
"Do you remember what you said? About living for somebody?" Enjolras said this in a low voice, speaking quickly.
She paused, thinking, and then nodded fervently, big eyes widening slightly. The hat she wore bobbed up and down on the bun of dark hair. He ached to reach out and fix it just to have an excuse to touch her.
"I will live for you, as long as you stay alive for me." With these words he turned back around and watched the rows and rows of men outside the barricade. He had, as cryptically as possible, told her he loved her. If he was going to die on this pile of furniture, then he might as well say it.
"Who goes there?" A man within the lines of soldiers called.
Enjolras didn't take his eyes from the gap in the barricade. He gripped his carbine tighter and his knuckles turned white as bone. "The French Revolution!" he shouted back.
The world stood silent and still, and then: "Fire!"
Enjolras bit down hard on his lip as the bullets fired into the wall of piled furniture. For Patria, he thought. And for Éponine.
Éponine had stopped moving. She didn't even know if she was breathing. Courfeyrac had to pull her down as the other side fired into their barricade.
"Hold your fire!" Combeferre was yelling as the shards of wood and various building materials rained down on them.
She didn't notice any of it, because she was pretty sure Enjolras had, in his own fashion, told her he loved her in a way that only the two of them would understand.
If I loved someone, and if they were the most important thing to me, I would live for them, too. She remembered her own words as sharp as steel. And he had told her, freezing her in place with intense blue eyes, that he would live for her, as long as she lived for him.
As long as she lived for him. Éponine felt as if she had awakened from a deep slumber. She was quite sure she could do that, especially if he had promised to try and survive. She hardened with a new resolve to fight for her life, and for Enjolras', and even for the entire barricade's.
Suddenly she heard Gavroche cry, "Watch out!"
Four tall, broad men, belonging (judging by their uniforms) to the Municipal Guard, had sneaked to the entrance of the barricade. As Gavroche alerted them of their presence (she mentally thanked all the deities for bestowing at least one of them with observance), they sprang in through the opening. In the back of Éponine's mind she marveled at how such large men could possibly fit through such a small space.
Bahorel was the first to react. "Vive la Revolution!" he cried, and vaulted forward, firing his musket right into the throat of the first guard.
Things seemed to go in slow motion. Éponine's breath stuck as she watched the second guard in terror. He stepped forward without even blinking and drove the end of his bayonet straight into Bahorel's chest.
She shrieked wordlessly in a mixture of rage and despair.
Enjolras was there in a second, and he had stabbed the guard with his own bayonet. "Éponine! he shouted, turning to her. His eyes commanded her to be calm. "Reload Bahorel's musket. Can you do that? Reload his musket, now!"
She breathed in deeply through her nose several times to pull herself together. "Yes, yes," she chanted as she picked up the musket and went through the motions of reloading it.
As she did this Éponine watched Courfeyrac get knocked down by a third Municipal guard, and the last guard advanced upon Gavroche, who held Javert's musket in his tiny arms. It was almost as big as he was, but the boy aimed it at the mammoth guard with a taunting expression.
Her brother was one of those people that surpassed the definition of courage. He reached the point known as fearlessness, which is the opposite of bravery. Courage is to face fear and overcome it, but fearlessness is to have no fear at all and charge onwards with something close to stupidity. That was what Gavroche was: so without a trace of fear he was almost foolish.
And when he fired the musket and realised it had not been loaded, the colossal guard laughed in his face. Gavroche just shrugged and gave him a cheeky grin as the bayonet was raised over his head.
Éponine would have none of it. She dropped the musket in her hands, and reached for the dagger in her boots. Her eyes fierce and blazing in protective fury, she bent back her arm and snapped it back forward with a decisive flick of the wrist. The blade was released in a flight of deadly accuracy. It thudded into the guard's left breast and he dropped the musket holding into Gavroche's waiting hands.
At the same time, just a few paces away from Éponine, Marius was just as intent on saving his housemate. He drew one of his twin pistols, squinted, pursed his lips, and fired. The bullet entered the guard's temple and he released Courfeyrac, who fell to the ground in relief with a grateful glance at Marius.
Éponine and Marius turned to look at each other with matching expressions of admiration. "Impressive," they said at the same time, and shared a grin full of camaraderie.
"Thankee kindly, 'Ponine!" Gavroche called cheerfully as he placed the fallen guards' muskets onto the rack.
"No problem," she replied, finishing unloading Bahorel's musket just as she heard a shout from beyond the barricade.
"Fire!"
The other side released another volley into the barricade. Parts of it splintered and broke. The revolutionaries were caught unawares but swiftly returned fire.
"Wait! Don't waste the ammunition!" Enjolras hollered, as Éponine threw fresh muskets at the men. Combeferre and Joly joined her in reloading the multitude of discharged carbines, muskets, and pistols, looting the useful belongings of the dead Municipal guards. Bossuet and another couple students dragged the bodies of the guards away, and put Bahorel separate from them, so he wouldn't have to be near his enemies even in death.
The soldiers still on the other side reassembled themselves. A man in the front called out to them. "Surrender!"
Éponine saw Enjolras quirk his lip in a wry smile.
"Surrender!"
Enjolras could have laughed. Did they really think they would surrender now? They had already lost Bahorel (who, though he was a massive pain in the arse, was still a close and dear friend he would miss terribly) and at least three other students. They'd gotten themselves in and now they would fight their way out, taking as many with them.
No, they weren't about to stop now. They had just gotten started.
"Fire!" Enjolras shouted, and the insurgents did.
The sound was like a thunderclap, right next to their ears, and the smoke filled their lungs.
When the smoke cleared Enjolras saw a figure on top of the barricade, holding a torch in the air.
"Get back, or I'll blow the barricade!" bellowed a voice. It was Marius, and the flame of the torch he was holding was flickering dangerously near a powder keg. There was a moment of stunned silence.
"Blow it up!" came the answering call. "And yourself with it!"
Marius lowered the torch even closer to the keg. Several people screwed up their faces in anticipation.
"Marius!" Enjolras barked warningly.
"And myself with it," Marius said solemnly.
Now many of the revolutionaries were calling his name, calling for him to get away from the keg.
"Pontmercy, don't be stupid!" Enjolras shouted, but there was no need. The guards had retreated back up the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the street on the end of which the Poteaux was situated, and into the night. The barricade was safe.
He raised his head, groggy. Where were the others? Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac? They were nowhere to be seen. As he blinked several times, his eyes adjusted to the dark. He was in a basement of some sort. He remembered being grabbed around the waist and being hit in the head with the butt of a pistol, but that was it.
He supposed he must have been taken captive by the guards. He was pondering this unfortunate turn of events when a door creaked open and a figure filled the doorway, blocking the light that spilled in.
He pressed the back of his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the sudden brightness, but the illuminance was short lived, because the door closed quickly and the figure scampered to his side. It lit a candle and irradiated the room with a dim light.
He could see a face now. It had delicate features, with a long, thin nose, soft lips, and mildly freckled cheeks. He saw bright green eyes, shaped like a cat's, and tendrils of ginger hair that curled out from underneath the hood.
He was confused for a second before that the stranger was a girl, and that he knew who the stranger was. He opened his mouth to say her name, but a pale, spindly hand was quickly placed over his mouth. When she removed it he immediately began to ask her questions in an incredulous whisper. "What are you doing here? Where are we? What's going on?"
"Shh," she shushed him, glancing at the door. "I'll answer those questions when we get out, if you haven't figured them out by then already."
"How did you even get here?" he hissed, still in a state of shock.
"Not all that hard, but I'll tell you later," she replied. "Now listen. We don't have much time before they come back, so you'll have to pay attention because I'm not going to repeat myself."
He nodded and she began to speak quickly in hushed tones. "Here's what we're going to do."
They took a count of the insurgents left standing. The Amis sat in the lower floor, except for Marius, who was keeping watch upstairs with the other revolutionaries.
"Jehan is missing," Joly said, after he made sure of it two more times.
"They must have taken him prisoner," Éponine guessed, face white. The others looked upset as well; Jehan was easily the most liked out of everybody since it was so hard to find a reason to dislike him.
"I suppose it's only fair, seeing as we've one of them," Grantaire said, waving drunkenly at the impassive Javert, sitting alone in the corner of the shop, now strapped to a table.
"No," Éponine turned on him vehemently. She could hardly believe he would say that about one of his friends. "Jehan is worth ten of him!" He gestured violently at the inspector.
"We are worse than traitors in their point of view," Combeferre said. "We are wanted dead more than anyone else."
"I don't give two shits about their point of view," Éponine huffed contemptuously. "I want Jehan back." She knew she sounded like a spoilt child, but he had been one of her dearest friends among the Amis.
"Are you set on having the prisoner dead?" Courfeyrac asked Enjolras, who was sitting just a couple feet away from Éponine.
She watched his face remain neutral and wished she could make the marble disappear.
"I am. But less than the life of Prouvaire." Enjolras cast a cursory glance upstairs.
Combeferre stood up. "I'll go ask for a truce. We'll give them the spy for Jehan."
"Wait." Enjolras held up a hand. Éponine also heard the noise of clicking weapons.
In the night they heard someone shout with the ferocity and recklessness of a doomed man. "Vive la France! Long live the future!"
A shot sounded, and Éponine leapt up, a hand covering her mouth, which had opened in a soundless cry. The back of her eyes burned with unshed tears, and her throat felt tight and swollen.
"They've shot him!" Combeferre looked shocked, as if he hadn't actually expected it to happen.
Éponine let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. She felt fingers curl around her wrist and when she looked down she saw the sleeve of a maroon jacket. Enjolras was looking at her with clear, cloudless blue eyes. Immediately she felt herself relax, but the tears still streamed down her face. When they subsided, still gripping that goddamned maroon sleeve like a lifeline, she tried to remember the last time she had cried for somebody.
She couldn't.
AN: I'm sorry.
* = Thomas Robert Bugeaud (15 October 1784 – 10 June 1849), duke d'Isly, was a marshal of France and Governer-General of Algeria.
** = "Cassimere" is another word for "cashmere".
