Edited: 1/31
DISCLAIMER: I claim nothing but the wild ramblings of my boredom-addled mind. Credit goes to Victor Hugo for the splendid cast of Les Miserables.
o0o
Eponine awakens to the cold air of Paris morning. It is eerily silent, save for water trickling off the roof, remnants of a heavy summer shower. There's a band of colors in the sky out the window, but it vanishes in moments, bringing her thoughts back to the present. She is lying on a mattress in a stranger's room. For the first time she can remember, no shouts are heard from the market, no clacking of boots on the cobblestones. The silence is ominous, like a calm lake waiting for the first stonethrow to send ripples across the surface.
Daybreak has faded when voices drift in from below, one soft murmur followed by another, gaining clarity and strength in chorus. The tune is hauntingly familiar, reminiscent of dirges on frostbitten nights by mothers mourning the loss of a child to the cold drafts of the gutters.
She hears a splash. Then the familiar drip of water being wrung from clothes in the vain hope of getting rid of dirt that never quite washes away. Soaked to their elbows in soapy tubs, washerwomen weave a tragic tale.
The revolution is over. The barricade has fallen. The streets are bathed in blood. The boys are dead.
Dead.
No survivors.
Monsieur Marius, dead.
Once, when she was a young girl, Eponine slipped and plunged into the frigid waters of spring-thawed Seine. Terror-filled moments later, she was clawing frantically towards the surface as the raging current dragged her deeper into endless blackness. Now Eponine is back there where her throat burns and she can't see in those murky depths as she goes down, down, down.
Her vision clears at last. She feels on fire, her body shaking with the intensity of a dam breaking within. It is anger, she realizes. Rarely felt, rarely bubbles to the surface. She is angry because if Monsieur Marius is indeed dead, then she would have thrown away her life in vain. Her one act of bravery in a lifetime of fear will have been worthless. She cannot bear this thought.
She must find him. She must know.
Eponine leans closer to the window, straining to catch every word.
"I saw guards dragging the bodies away. Mostly students who should be pounding away at their books in the university, not spilling their guts on the streets. It rained, so those uniformed devils had to retreat. Left the corpses piled up in the corner. Now there's blood pooling everywhere. I'll never look at Rue Mondetour the same way again."
"They say a young boy was among them. Poor child, too young to die. Battles are for men, why drag an innocent lad into the bloody mess?"
"Ha! 'Twas bound to happen! Their leader was a fool who didn't know the first thing about a fight. That what they teach you in school? To cause riots in the town square and deceive us poor folk with promises of what can never be?"
"He seemed like an honest man. Really believed in what he was saying. Unfortunately, too hotheaded for his own good."
"Aren't they all? But what a waste. Good men are rare as diamonds and worth twice as much, if you ask me."
No news about Monsieur Marius then. Just the leader, Enjo-Enjo-
Enjolras. My classmate and good friend, Monsieur Marius had said when she inquired about the blonde in the crimson jacket spewing out strange words far removed from daily speech but too sophisticated to be nonsense.
Just like that, she's pulled back to the barricades, to people and places she'd love to forget. But among the battle-hungry youths is a familiar face. A kind, gentle face. The face of the first man who ever smiled...and cried for her.
Monsieur Marius. I must find him. Or what remains of him.
She crawls out of bed, a sting at her side causing her to howl in pain. Seems but a flesh wound, hurts like all the beatings she has ever received bunched into one.
"You're awake!"
She snaps her head to the source of the sound. Chestnut hair framing almond skin peppered with light freckles materializes from the shadows. A girl of five years, small and bony, hazel eyes and pinched cheeks stares back.
"Where am I?" Eponine croaks, her voice coming in ragged wisps even hoarser than before.
Those big eyes widen, something akin to disbelief in her expression. She's a ghost after all-sentenced to this fate by a rifle bullet-and ghosts shouldn't move, much less speak. How is she even breathing?
"Father saved you. He dragged you from the barricades when the guards where away. You've been asleep for two days."
"How'd you find me?"
"You've got the good Lord to thank for that," another voice cuts in. It belongs to a woman, most likely the child's mother. Plump cheeks and buxom frame, unkempt hair and puffy eyelids evidence that rivers of tears had streamed down her cheeks not too long ago.
Eponine remains silent, so the woman goes on.
"After the barricades fell, the rain poured in. My husband braved the downpour to find my brother. Prayed all night to Heaven above he'd still be alive. Well guess what, he wasn't. But God's still merciful. He led us to you and-" Her brow furrows as she gestures to a slightly parted curtain leading to another room in the house. "him."
Him?
It could be Marius. Hearing the news of the morning has drained her strength; she wants nothing more than to sink back into bed. But she must know.
"Please." Eponine rarely begs. Stole, wheedled, tricked a hundred times, but only the greatest desperation could drive her to beg. "Please, there's someone I left at the barricades. I need to see if that's him."
Her companion exhales a weary sigh. "You're a stubborn one. My husband kept telling me that's the only reason you survived. You're simply too stubborn to die." Turning to her child, she adds, "Darling, please call your father. I've cried myself too weak to carry a feather."
"Yes, Mama." With a whirl of skirts, the girl is gone, hurrying to obey her mother's command. She's a picture of childish innocence, unlike the rebellious brat Eponine had been at her age. The girl's tired yet bright eyes remind her of Cosette. The girl in shabby rags who dreamed of castles.
Silly little princess, no knight is coming to rescue you.
Barely a minute later, the girl is back, hand clasped firmly in those of a tall man she calls father. He eyes her solemnly, stroking his graying beard. Eponine shifts uneasily under his gaze, as though he sees through her sins, her past and shame. Unspoken words-imagined or real-she feels them and shivers. This is the land of the living. There is no place for ghosts.
At last his features soften, breaking the spell. He nods and stretches an arm for her to lean on. She clutches it gratefully, glad for several pounds of solid muscle to lean her weight on. She takes the first shaky step, but pain from her abdomen makes her hiss.
"You okay there, Miss? It's t' soon for ya t' be walkin' with an injury like that." He looks concerned, but there's something else in his expression. She musters courage to look straight into his eyes without flinching and is surprised by what she finds. There's gentle empathy in those blue pools. He knows the pain of not knowing.
She grits her teeth, steels every hurting muscle against the ache. "I can." I must.
She takes more tortured steps, more slowly this time. He leads her to a narrow cot, where a pale face and a mop of flaxen hair are all that's visible under the covers.
She stares coldly at the figure on the mattress. Of course, who else would it be? Save the leader. Always the leader.
"There were bullet wounds in seven places when we found his body. Even now, his pulse is barely there. 'Tis a miracle he's still breathing," he explains, answering a question she never asked.
Her gaze settles on the bandages peeking from underneath the tiny blanket. She swallows, wincing as pain flares downward. Her throat is dry and scratchy.
This is him. The angel with the golden curls and silver tongue. She envisions his profile when she last saw him, so striking in the sunset, but all that comes to mind are red flags, smoking cannons, and her dead brother. For a fleeting moment, she pities him for his failed revolution, then anger stirs, black and evil.
This is your fault. You took everything away. You killed my family. Granted, she and Gavroche were never that close, but she felt a sharp loss nonetheless. Security, sanity, trust that someone out there who knew the streets—her streets-existed.
I wish you were dead. You have no right to live.
Neither did she.
If you ever recover, rich boy, I'm gonna punch that handsome face till my hands are stained crimson.
She remembers Gavroche and Monsieur Marius once respected this man.
They're dead. Because of you. Do you know that? Do you care?
Fighting him can't bring your brother back. Won't help you find Monsieur Marius.
But hate can.
Yes, hate. Hate to keep her holding on. Hate to remind her of the memory that must never be forgotten. Hate to blunt her record of wrongs. She may be a sinner, but he's a murderer, which is worse. That feels strangely satisfying.
She's hoping in him, too, after all, but not for salvation.
Live on, Monsieur. Live on and let me hate. If you survive, then maybe Monsieur Marius has a chance, too. And then we can settle our score.
One last lingering gaze and her eyes harden with resolve. Slowly, she wrenches her face toward the family and takes a long gulp of air.
And smiles.
"Thank you, but I must leave now. There's someone-" Steady your voice. Get a grip on yourself. You can do this. "If he's alive, I must find him. Should our paths cross again, I'll do my best to repay your kindness."
The lady shakes her head. "Consider the debt paid. We helped because we could. You owe us nothing, you and him both. Though he could land us in prison should the guards learn of his whereabouts."
Her husband lays a steadying hand on Eponine's shoulder and hands her a cloth bag. "God bless you, lass. And don't forget to put on fresh bandages every morning."
"Thank you." Please save him. He's the only hope left. It's hoarse and weak and afraid, but she has nothing more to say, and Monsieur Marius may be needing her, so she leaves them and disappears into the welcoming cold of the alleyways, where the shadows claim her as their own. This is where she belongs. This is home.
But everything is different now.
o0o
What are you?
A question that torments each waking moment, and he hates to acknowledge it.
In the aftermath of the barricade, Enjolras is perplexed with how to put the jagged shards of his life together. He's left with shreds and pieces on the floor, deformed or shattered beyond repair.
What had possessed him, a mere student, to launch a rebellion against the crown? It was rash and unbecoming, futile from the very start. Knowing Combeferre, he wondered why his quiet, peace-loving friend agreed to his plan for revolt. Perhaps he, too, eventually succumbed to the madness.
What are you?
A fool.
He believed in Patria. Fought for Patria. But Patria betrayed him. Those men who built guns for the guards, who crafted the bullets, those women who sewed the uniforms, the cold indifference of the masses—the very ones they died to save had killed them.
What are you?
A madman.
Dawn at the barricade had sent his world tumbling into madness. Endless freefall down the abyss, and nothing to grab on to. No companion to share in his misery, no ray of light in the endless tunnel of doom. Every night, he is plagued by the terrified looks on their faces.
Years ago, Enjolras looked into a polished coffin, saw the pale corpse of a man in a suit, and thought that was death. He was wrong. He witnessed the smoke of a hundred rifles, saw men drop dead all around and thought that was death.
No, this is what death looks like. All those faces begging him to save them and he could do nothing but watch.
You promised them a future but marched them off to their deaths. And you couldn't even join them.
What are you?
A weakling
He sees the barricade boys valiantly holding their ground against a furious storm of red and blue. Shouts of acclaim ring out from an adoring crowd. This is what they deserve for their bravery, for their willingness to fight for their beliefs. But the applause is drowned out by a volley of bullets, and one by one they fall. A gunshot, he decides, is not loud enough to acknowledge the end of an existence.
What are you?
A failure.
The ruins of the barricade remind him of a child's sandcastle washed away by a single wave. A few rifles and a stack of wood planks could never withstand the onslaught of a mighty swell crashing down with the force of a hundred rivers, and in mere moments, their ship of dreams was ripped at its seams.
What are you?
A hollow shell of a man.
The captain always goes down with his ship, but fate begrudged him this mercy. He lives, each day sinking deeper into this hell. He had been prepared to die a noble death for the sake of his ideals. But he had not been ready to live.
What are you?
You are alive and they are dead and you will carry the burden of their deaths all your life. There is no peace for men like you, whose hands are drenched with blood.
Red, the blood of slaughtered comrades
Black, the dark descent into madness
Red, gunfire and dying screams at dawn
Black, the nightmare that never ends.
o0o
Her stomach growls. It has been two days since her last meal. Hunger lashes out vindictively, commanding her to acknowledge its existence. Three weeks have passed since the barricade has fallen. Three weeks of being alive.
It's almost surreal. Like this isn't her life, just a borrowed existence. No fear of dying because she is already dead.
Her hand clutches her side, where a bullet should have ended her life half a month ago. She has said her last goodbyes to the man whose heart belonged to another. She has lost both her brother and beloved to the barricade, witnessed the rise and fall of a revolution, and held the hunger-ravaged corpse of her sister. She has been through all this and survived. And so it is with head held high that Eponine walks into the shanty that has been her home for so long. There is not a single coin in her pocket, but she cannot care less. Let her mother scream at the top of her lungs. Let her father beat her if he dares. Her body's a battered maze of scars already. This time, she will fight back.
She pauses and fills her lungs with air, taking in the stench of this place for the last time. No bile wells up now.
With a slight push of the makeshift door, she swings it open and ducks past the low entrance into their cramped dwelling. Her parents are away, and what meager furnishings remain are a scattered wreck whose owners who have forgotten to care anymore. Her gaze drifts toward the makeshift bed she has shared with Azelma for three years. It is empty. Her eyes shut solemnly, comprehending the silence. Fate has taken everything from her, and she has nothing more to lose now.
She is Eponine Thenardier, daughter of the moon and child of the night.
Hanging on to the frayed strands of hope that remain.
o0o
The rain is assaulting, pounding on the roof with the ferocity of a hundred gunshots in rapid succession. The adrenaline that comes from standing so close to death, knowing that every breath could be your last, now washes over him in waves of regret.
He hears the bullets scream past, sees anguish and terror etched on their faces, inhales the acrid scent of fresh blood mingled with thick, suffocating smoke. With each thunderclap he relives the firing of cannons.
It's during these moments like this when tension suffocates the air, when you hold your breath watching the rise and fall of the other's chest, when you notice reddish strands among the clump of black hair in his head, when your eyes trace patterns in the fissures in concrete, when you start counting ants worshipping a drop of whiskey. That was the longest night of his life, and he had never felt more alive.
Grantaire steps forward, swinging a half-empty bottle in a wild arc in their direction. "Friends, philosophers, revolutionists. Men today, heroes tomorrow, I invite you to examine this marvelous work of art by the renowned French artist Monsieur Courfeyrac!" Rowdy hoots and cheers and clanging of pots applaud in jest.
"And now, my dear man, would you care to unveil the mysteries behind this exceptionally intricate masterpiece of yours?" It is Comberfere who speaks this time.
"As you see, this figure is none other than the acclaimed physician Joly. To his right is the great philosopher and erudite scholar Comberfere. Our leader with the voice of an angel, Enjolras! Let us not forget the valiant prince of the streets, Gavroche, and the wine connoisseur Grantaire whose taste for absinthe is a legend in the Corinth. As for the identity of this round head, I leave the audience to guess," says Courfeyrac with a mischievous grin. Courfeyrac, whose carefree demeanor could convince anyone that wine were the magical antidote to all ill.
"Bossuet!" they shout and raise their bottles in chorus. His men are roaring drunk, and he makes no move to stop them.
"Come on, Enjolras! Join us in a toast to the success of the revolution! Long live France! Success to the revolution! More hair to Bossuet!"
"More hair to Bossuet!" they echo.
There is no resemblance between the stick figures and his men, but for once, he couldn't care less.
He thrashes under the covers. His body is shaking feverishly, his clothes drenched in cold sweat. He reaches to grasp a gun, a knife, a bludgeon-anything to use as a weapon. Tear-blurred eyes dart wildly around the room and find nothing.
He gets up to wash his face, to banish the bitter taste of defeat from his tongue, wishing the cold tap could numb him to it all. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he's taunted by the face in the mirror. Dark bruises, a long gash on his forehead, rivulets of water coursing down his skin like blood. Look how far you've fallen.
It's the eyes that unnerve him. Those are the eyes of one who has been to hell and back.
The image drags him back to the battlefield, and cannonballs tear down the barricade and his friends are dead and it is all over. Then, because his mind cannot take any more of the carnage, he drifts back to memories of the Café Mussain. Back to happier times and heated arguments and bawls of laughter over delicious wine. What he would give to bring back the old days, when the warmth of friendship overflowed and understanding bound them despite their contrasting personalities. Grantaire is roaring drunk, and Bahorel's witty remarks have no effect on his absinthe-induced haze. Jehan is writing poetry, Joly is rambling to Bossuet about an itch on his back, Courfeyrac is laughing with Gavroche, Combeferre is surveying the scene with somber eyes, and Marius—Marius is dreaming in a world of his own. And there is Gavroche, the fearless young fellow of barely a dozen summers who bravely risked his life to gather ammunition at the barricade.
There is someone else. In his mind's eye, a new figure enters the room. It's a skinny lass with sunken eyes and threadbare clothes who clings to Marius like a shadow. That girl had been the first to fall, merely hours after the barricade was erected. She looked so young, barely a woman, body frail and thin from malnourishment. And yet her face bore the most serene expression he had seen, as if death had chosen to make her beautiful.
If he were a poet, he'd write each one of them an epitaph. He isn't, so he curls into himself and cries.
o0o
It is nearly twilight, and Eponine finds herself wandering near the ruins of the Corinth. Her wound has healed, leaving a faint scar. A memory of bravery. She weaves downtown through corners and alleys, a quest in her heart, a song on her lips. Such is the way of those who dwell in Paris' streets. Songs and wine are the only outlet to their grief.
She sings about her childhood, about happier days spent playing with dolls and frolicking with playmates on lazy afternoons. She sings about boys who went to fight a war that was never theirs, about young lovers meeting in gardens in secret, and voices so powerful they could spark rebellions in their wake. She sings about mistakes and the sadness they bring. Finally her scattered warbling changes to a toast for the newlywed Pontmercy couple.
Monsieur Marius didn't invite her - who'd want a ghost at their wedding - but she wants to do them the honors. Sifting through a heap of sacks in lying against a wall, she finds an empty bottle. She raises it along with a loaf of bread she had stolen an hour ago. It's cruelty, stealing a boy's dinner, but she's learned to shrug it off. She finds an spot in the corner sheltered from the damp, sits down with her head leaning against the wall, and eats every last crumb.
A couple of months ago, Eponine would have been jealous. She would have cursed Cosette with every fiber of her being and wished she were in the other girl's place. Now she only feels relief that Marius is alive and happy. And a pinch of remorse for being mean to Cosette. In this world there are only hollow victories, a guilty conscience, and endless regret.
A pair of drunken guards stumble out a nearby tavern, their blazing red uniforms a stark contrast to the gloom of the alley. One of them turns and gives her a lecherous sneer. She has seen that sinister mouth, those merciless eyes before, and her grip on her skirt tightens. He was there at the barricade.
For a moment she is trapped between fleeing for her life before they recognize her and charging wildly at them to inflict as much damage as a frail street urchin in rags can do. Then the guard stumbles and his companion drags him away, muttering curses with every step.
There they go, into the realm between light and shadow. Nothing but a pair of glorified murderers biding their time before judgment day. When it comes for them, she hopes the flames will not be kind.
Her weary frame sags down in relief. So close. Her hands are trembling and her racing pulse is ringing in her ear, but she can't help the smirk on her face.
There is something else. Something they could never-will never-take away. Hope. She remembers her brother, remembers Marius, remembers the golden-haired leader of the revolution. They can take everything away everything else, but not hope.
A familiar whistle breaks the silence, followed by murmured instructions. The Patron Minette is nearby.
It feels strange not to be part of this, but she realizes she doesn't miss it. Not the loot, not the life of a thief, and certainly not her father. After marching out of that horrid shack, she wants nothing more to do with the remnants of her former life.
A stylish figure walks past, hands tucked in the pockets of his stolen coat. Her father and his henchmen will beat her up if they find her. Montparnasse is different, though.
"Parnasse," she whispers sharply, crouching deeper into her cover of shadows. He's still whistling. Again, more forceful this time. "Parnasse!"
"Eponine? I thought you were dead!"
"Listen! I'm calling a favor tonight. Can you get me tickets to the county?"
"Oh? You are not here to help us, then?" He throws a lit cigarette on the ground, crushing it underfoot. "What a waste. I figured you could be of use tonight." His eyes flash dangerously.
"I'm out of this."
"Enjoying your customers lately? They paying you much, huh?"
"I can earn my own keep. Honest work, Parnasse." She snapped, indignant with the accusation. "Once I get out of this city."
"Like you'd survive out in the wild!" He laughs, cold and laced with scorn that digs into her bones. "You know better than that. Honest work never gets you anywhere, lass." She says nothing, so he straightens up, tipping his hat and smoothing out his coat. "When you've not a coin left in your pocket you can always come running to me. Rest assured I'll get your blasted ticket-how many did you say you need?"
His gold tooth reminds her of something else entirely. A crown of gold atop an angelic face. "Two," she replies.
"Two," he amends, holding up two fingers. And with an amused grin, he tucks his hand back into his pocket and saunters away.
Two tickets and then it's over. She won't need Parnasse or her father to survive.
She waits for her father's thugs to pass before stumbling down the street. She finds herself walking down Rue de Mondetour. Moonlight bathes the path in a peaceful glow. The silence of this autumn night is a far cry from the nightmare of bullet-riddled corpses lying strewn about in streets that bloomed with pungent crimson mixed with tears from heaven.
For the first time in two months, the air does not suffocate. For the first time, she lifts her face to the sky and awaits the dawn.