This was written for the christmas calender on tumblr - pick a date and write an E/E story, so that there is a story for every day in december.

This is the story for the 2nd of december, and actually relates to events happening on the 4th of december 1832...

What started out as a thought experiment has now become City of Glass canon, so this is where I intend to steer towards in the City of Glass...

I hope you like it

Eponine and Enjolras: The heart of winter

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

Have you ever woken up to the smell of a baked apple? To the aroma of almonds and baked apple, placed in the oven for hours and hours until they are soft and warm and all that is good in winter?

Mother used to make them when Christmas was near, and the smell would wander through the inn and wake us from slumber knowing that there was a treat waiting for us downstairs in the kitchen.

Maybe it is a telltale sign of all that was wrong with the sense of business of my parents that in the "Sergeant of Waterloo" this was considered breakfast; baked apple with broth and a dash of cinnamon if the fancy took her; instead of a dessert for a dinner as most people would.

But Azelma and I, for us there was little more welcome than this smell at the beginning of winter.

Even after we lost the inn and moved to humble and ever more humble lodgings in Paris, the beginning of winter with its apples was a constant.

Almonds were overrated in later years, but there still were apples, the fruits of winter, and predictable as the sun rising in the morning there would be a morning where we would be woken by the familiar smell, and we would know and feel that Christmas was near.

It was one of the last things to go during our downfall, and the winter where both of us lay awake every morning, waiting for a smell that never came, was probably the clearest sign that we had lost all that was to be had in the world.

There had been no Christmas that year, but this was only an afterthought.

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Have you ever woken up to a smell that left you disoriented and confused, not knowing where you were and caught in the specters of the past? A moment in time where, if pressed for an answer, you could not have given your name, or your age, or the location you had curled up to sleep before?

There was this morning where I woke to feel again as if I were eight years old, and Azelma was curled up against me as the smell of apples wavered through the inn. I was warm and comfortable, and only the slightest draft was wheezing over my face.

I stayed for a moment, buried deeply in the soft bed; wrapped up in the pillows and covers and the smell of apples, warm and cozy and completely content.

Only slowly I came to, and realized with a certain regret that I was not eight, but eighteen years old, and that I was alone in my bed, my sister halfway across the city.

But safe. Safe at least. Both of us. There was that.

And there was the smell of apples, which was very real.

Exchanging my expression of content to one of a deepening frown, I opened my eyes and found myself in new and familiar surroundings.

My little room on the top floor in the house on Rue d'Olivel, the place I had fled to after the chaotic days of revolution, and before I knew who I really was.

A former servants' quarter, tiny, but at my disposal, and better than any place I had had in a long time. I could not afford a bigger lodging and would take no alms of the lady of the house – and she understood me and charged a fair rent that allowed me independence.

It was a sanctuary for me, and the first place since the inn in which I slept truly well and deeply.

The roof was well-thatched, and there was only the slightest of drafts; the chamber was relatively warm even in winter. It was cozy in its own way, has a small carpet and a table with three chairs – there used to be four but the last one broke. The bed was broad and warm and a large armchair in the corner was even big enough for someone to sleep in.

As he had proven on several occasions.

Before he shared my bed. But we were not there yet.

At this morning I was on my own, alone with the dawn, the warmth and the smell of apples.

Inevitably, my gaze and attention was drawn to the small oven in the corner, well heated and filled with charcoal and the main source of the comfortable warmth in the room.

I shivered as I got out of bed, but curiosity had a way of getting the better of me, and so I wrapped myself in a shawl and padded over to the stove, wondering if I had even put on that amount of coal the night before.

The stove was not as I left it. Three cups had been filled with dark, rich soil, and I could not make sense of it. Yet, the red ribbon that had been placed around them served as the confirmation I didn't need – that this item in my apartment had not been misplaced or simply been not cleaned – but that there was a design to this that still escaped my understanding.

But the cups and ribbon were not what had drawn me to the stove in the first place, and so I tiptoed to the stovepipe that reached out into the room and took a careful peek.

Sitting in the smaller of my two bowls, there were two apples; red and well cooked through, showered in almonds. The smell was so much stronger here and I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, evoking images of safety and childhood, carelessness and winter.

Christmas around the bend.

Everything would be different this year, I realized with a mixture of terror and elation. My life had turned on its head and nothing, nothing was as it were. Mostly, the turns had been for the better – it was frightening to leave well-trodden paths but I had loathed my paths well enough to welcome each and every change to it.

And I had friends.

I had him.

And this was his design, certainly, for despite all his bright and shining words he was a man of action, when he was free to be so. And as I carefully took out the apples from the stove I felt as if for the first time since five years it had become winter again, truly winter, and despite having feared it for years and years I almost found myself wishing for snow.

I wondered, what Christmas would look like in this new world of mine.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.

Have you ever come home one night, tired and weary of the day's toils only to realize how much comfort a place can bring that is intrinsically yours, a place that allows you to be what you are, that is sanctuary, shelter and heart? And have you ever realized that something can be completely yours even if you share it, or especially if you share it, and that you can be free despite it still?

This is what I realized when I came home and found my room not deserted, but in fact occupied by him, sitting in the armchair with a book in his hands, reading in the light of a lone candle that kissed sparks into his golden hair.

In that moment, I was glad that he was there, and despite the glory he was able to exhibit, despite his noble attire, he seemed to belong there, exactly there, in my humble, little room with the tilted roof and the tiny window, a memory of the smell of the morning apples still hanging in the walls.

He lifted his gaze from the book he was reading and I felt his brows raising slightly in a questioning gaze that I had not considered arrogant for a long while.

"Eponine", he greeted me, and there was the hint of a smile on his face. He was in no hurry to place aside his reading but did so calmly while I disposed of jacket and cap, gloves and scarf, and when I was done I found him standing next to me.

"I hope you are well", he said and I nodded, responding with a quick, almost chaste kiss that tasted like reassurance. I am here. You are here. We are alive. This is real.

"Very well", I answered truthfully as his hands briefly ghosted around my face during the kiss only to let go of me again, reluctantly but without resistance. "I…", I hesitated briefly, unsure how to broach the matter but decided for bluntness in the end. "Thank you."

That called forth a true smile, magnetism lighting up in his blue eyes, and when he turned around to the stovepipe - almost involuntarily, I thought, but very traitorous none the less – there was a strange kind of childish pride in his face.

"You are very welcome", he answered softly. "Very welcome."

I stepped a little closer, his warmth adding to that of the room, and it made him turn back to me, looking slightly startled but the smile not wavering.

"How did you know?" I asked and he ducked his head in something like embarrassment, shrugging as his hands found my hips with just the slightest of hesitations.

This was becoming more natural. I soared.

"Jehan", he answered, and that word told the story in its entirety – my younger, shy sister who had captured Enjolras' poet friend's heart so well, might have told something to Prouvaire, who, in his usual perceptiveness, had warned Enjolras.

Who had acted upon the story, apparently without hesitation.

"Ah. Azelma", I voiced my thoughts, placing my hands loosely on the arms that held me. He took a deeper breath and blinked briefly, but he was still Enjolras and caught himself very quickly.

"Just so, I presume", he answered. "It seemed a gesture you would appreciate, I thought; and befitting, too."

He was being enigmatic, and probably deliberately so. I chastised him quickly by pressing his arms a little more, but I could not keep the amusement out of my voice as I spoke.

"Befitting?"

He started to say something, but then thought better of it and instead released me and moved over to the stove, where, untouched since the morning, stood the cups filled with soil.

"I have been told that the apples somewhat represented your family's tradition of starting the Christmas festivities", he began, placing the cups on the table carefully before he turned to me again. "And this is what we have done when I was a child."

Where before I had been grateful and slightly honored at his effort, I now had to take care not to gape at him. This movement seemed almost out of character, and it was a snipped of something that he only rarely allowed me to see.

Enjolras did not like to talk about the childhood he had had, and he was reluctant to trade stories or accounts from his earlier years. I had long wondered if this was due to the fact that he was attempting to hide something, but after a while I realized that he just thought it of no consequence.

He was of the opinion that his childhood had been boring and not worth the mentioning, no matter how much I would have been interested in hearing stories from it.

I was not sure whether he was sharing this on an own wish of his, or rather as a strange tit-for-tat-game, a response to him knowing the traditions I missed. Either was… breathtaking.

"What is it?" I asked, carefully keeping my voice steady over the pounding of my heart. I had only limited success, but he seemed nervous as well, somewhat uncertain of the situation.

"Wheat seeds", he responded. "Wheat of Santa Barbara."

The fourth of December. Santa Barbara. Today. Still, I did not understand.

"They will bud and grow until Christmas", he explained, "and the young wheat will then be used for the decoration of the dinner table."

He was facing the cups, not me, and I saw him rallying his courage, a deep breath, wandering through his whole body until he was standing fully upright again. His blue gaze held mine with warmth and a hidden smile. "Saint Barbara's Wheat well germinated is the symbol of prosperity for the New Year, that's what they say in Provence. It is… signifying of a new beginning."

I pondered this for a moment, holding his gaze without reservation. I knew he valued the evaluated thought more than the quick response, and in moments like this, he had the patience to wait. Still, something within him must have been restless, for he reached over the table, carefully entwining his fingers with my own, and suddenly I understood.

"It is a new beginning", I confirmed slowly, my hand returning the pressure he was seeking. He rewarded it with a quick tightening of his fingers, and something flickered within his gaze, too far gone to understand. "My life has changed, and I will never be what I was before. I can forget it all and start fresh."

He nodded softly, and I thought his breath was going slightly flatly. There was tension in him, and I sensed that I had not gotten to the bottom of the story yet.

So I took the path to its end.

"But I can keep the good things. I can keep what I want. That's what the apples are for, right?"

The tension evaporated from him with such a speed that I was almost surprised I didn't hear a snap, and in a moment he was around the table and kissing me, the fingers of his free hand in my hair, pulling me to him with vehemence.

I lost myself there and then, in this sudden moment of passion, and responded in kind, felt him release my fingers and gather me to him, and then time stood still and nothing mattered any more.

"You understand", he whispered later, when I was still in his arms but free to speak again, and there was a precious notion of wonder in his voice. "How is it that you always understand? How is it that I can see you growing, day by day? You see the open door, you dare the unmarked path. You are becoming what you can and want to be."

His arms tightened quickly, and the next words were almost inaudible, lost in her hair, but I was straining to hear and understood them none the less.

"Sometimes you are a wonder to behold."

And I thought of the wheat and the apples, and how he must have crept in here silently before dawn to prepare all of it. And finally I understood.

"I am no wonder", I answered softly, my fingers tracing spirals and lines onto his back, and from time to time, he shivered. "I am just me. No idol, no symbol. Just Éponine."

"You are a wonder", he answered, "but not an idol, no." He almost laughed, the notion running through his body, and close as we were I could feel it shaking through me as well. "For I am fully convinced that there is not a single person on earth that is your equal." He hesitated again, before he continued, more seriously. "In my eyes, that is. For there is only one Éponine."

I felt dizzied by the words and his proximity, but there was also something ultimately comforting and right about the way they were standing here, entwined and lost in each other. I had no response to his words, not yet, but I knew that he was looking for a different kind of response anyhow.

"So I chose my own path, forget what I've been", I carefully came back to wheat and apples, "but I keep Azelma and Gavroche. I keep apples and songs and the memories of stories. I keep the friends I made over the last year."

I separated myself from him slightly to look into his eyes, and saw them brimming with enthusiasm, for he seemed to long know what I was going to say.

But there is a special magic in words that are spoken aloud and so I continued.

"I keep you."

I saw the softening in his eyes, moments before he gathered me to him again, and we were kissing, in bites and plays and little gasps, his lips brushing over my eyes, and mine carefully peppering his jaw.

I heard him laugh, relieved and happy and young and felt myself laughing as well.

And for the moment, that was enough.

Have you ever known how it is to be loved? How it is to stand side by side, tall and equal, in mutual admiration and respect?

If you have you know it needs no words.

It just is.

Poem by John Keats