7
"I'm a little bit in love with you too, you know."
Éponine's last words were playing in Enjolras' weary mind again and again and again, as though those were the only words known to man. His single tear turned into two, then five, and then twenty, and his broad shoulders shook like leaves in a breeze. She was the first to fall upon this barricade and her death had reduced the marble man to tears and choking sobs. How will it feel when Combeferre dies? When Grantaire is shot? Another wave of silent tears crashed over Enjolras at the thought of their eyes, glassy and unseeing with death, staring into nothingness for the rest of eternity. It would be his fault. Éponine's death was his fault.
Joly placed a firm and reassuring hand on his leader's shoulder. Enjolras covered Joly's hand with his own briefly before meeting the medical student's questioning brown eyes. Looking away, his gaze resting on Éponine's broken body once more, Enjolras nodded in silent and dejected approval. He noted with distaste that Marius was still sitting beside her, his hand resting hesitantly on her head. The doctor-in-training broke through the semi-circle of bruised and battle beaten men to examine the body of the valiant gamine.
Kneeling down, disregarding the puddle of blood in which he had sat, Joly placed his index and middle fingers on the side of Éponine's limp neck, searching for a pulse. Enjolras looked away, unwilling to watch her death become final. His gaze swept across the ransacked little street. Where there were only happy memories a day before, there were an ever increasing number of ghosts rising up to take their places in the dark corners of the square. The tiny rivulets of watered down blood converging to meet in the great lake of opalescent red, the abandoned bodies of the enemy, the shattered skeletons of so many kind peoples' furniture: every image was burned to the inside of Enjolras' eyelids, down to the tiniest detail. He turned and began to limp away.
"Enjolras!" gasped Joly, his tone a mixture of delight and confusion. Enjolras turned mechanically back around and reentered the thinning group.
Joly held a tiny mirror to Éponine's mouth, a tool physicians use to check for the presence of breath. The mirror was fogging; Éponine was breathing. Éponine is alive.
"Someone, bring her quickly into the Café. If she is to be saved, action needs to be taken now," Joly commanded, pocketing the mirror and running towards the makeshift hospital to prepare.
Marius was confused and unsure of what to do, removing his hand from its spot on her head and letting it fall to his side, limp and useless. Who was the job of carrying the fragile girl to Joly going to fall to? Clearly not Pontmercy. Disregarding the shooting pain in his left leg Enjolras strode quickly and determinedly and, stooping down, lifted the girl into his arms. Turning slowly, he started the suddenly long walk to the Café. Éponine groaned softly in pain and discomfort but Enjolras made no move to shift her position, afraid that any sudden movement may prove disastrous.
"Y-you must be gentler with her, Enjolras," insisted Marius, trailing too close behind. "If you aren't more c-careful, she may d-die!"
"And suddenly you are an expert on mademoiselle Thénardier, are you?" Enjolras asked bitingly, refusing to turn and acknowledge the man. Marius merely sputtered in reply. They were almost to the tavern, Éponine was almost safe. When she was in Joly's care, then he would take care of Pontmercy.
With only a few yards left until the doorway Enjolras stumbled, his boot catching on the same loose cobblestone which had torn Éponine's foot a few days prior. The unexpected movement jostled the girl, causing her to cry out loudly at the shooting tendrils of red hot pain coursing through her veins. Enjolras regained his balance and tensed, unsure of how to move to help the screaming girl. His wounded leg began to tremble from the effort it took to stand as he was.
Marius hesitated only a moment more before jumping in front of Enjolras and situating his arms beneath Éponine. He blushed a light pink when his hand accidentally brushed against her breasts and made an awkward apology, earning him a murderous look from Enjolras. Marius finished the job which Enjolras had started, stumbling into the Café with the now sedate girl in his arms.
"Quickly, place her on the bar," Joly instructed. His usually easy going attitude had been replaced by a strong and commanding air and Marius obeyed immediately.
The terrified boy crossed the room and, cradling Éponine's head, laid her gently on the bar. The loss of warmth and change of position was enough to draw her back from the doorway of Death. Gaspin in pain at the sensation of her wounded shoulder making contact with the unyielding wood of the bar, Éponine's opened her eyes and looked around frantically. Enjolras ran unsteadily from where he had been resting at the doorway but stopped short when he saw the smile on Éponine's face. The smile was for Marius.
"Monsieur… am I in… Heaven?" she asked breathlessly, the smile becoming a grimace of pain when she tried to laugh.
"Shh, 'Ponine," cooed Marius, "Joly will take care of you; you'll live longer than I!"
Éponine's dull eyes regained their usual sparkle. He is excited that I will live. Perhaps he does love me after all! She slowly reached up to stroke Marius' freckled cheek with her good hand. He recoiled, but only Enjolras noticed. Éponine was too lost in his dark eyes to be aware of anything else, not even Enjolras. He was watching with a growing knot in his stomach. Suddenly, her eyes grew to the size of saucers.
"Monsieur Marius… Cosette left… letter for you. In my… pocket."
Timidly, Marius began reaching for her pants pocket but Éponine shook her head. He then reached for her coat pocket, but she intercepted his hand with speed and agility that shocked the three men. Shakily, she guided his hand to the breast pocket of her shirt. If she had not lost so much blood, her cheeks would have been rosy. Instead they simply returned to their normal colour from the paper-white they had been moments before. Marius made quick work of getting the letter, thanked the girl, and took a few steps back. His eyes were greedily taking in the sight of Cosette's beloved handwriting.
Éponine was confused. He still loves her. She tried to sit up but only made it so far as to move her right shoulder, the injured one, before emitting a whimper of agony. Her hand fell back to the bar with a dull thud and her eyes rolled back in her head. Éponine had lost consciousness again. Joly was finished with his preparations and barked an order to Marius and Enjolras to leave. They would not want to see this.
Marius tore his eyes from the folded paper in his hands to take one more lingering look at the bloodied body lying in front of him, at the girl who had saved his life without thanks, before brushing past Enjolras and leaving the Café. His thoughts were already on Cosette, Enjolras could tell. He had the far off look in his eyes of one who was somewhere else; somewhere beautiful.
His assumption was spot-on. Marius was on his way to find Gavroche to ask him to deliver a letter to his lady love's newly acquired second address. The man completely forgot to tell the gamin that his sister was still alive.
Enjolras was rooted to his spot in the middle of the Café. He looked around as though he were in a daze, taking in the tableau before him. The blood of his men, his friends, was covering the tables and floor from where Joly had hurriedly patched their wounds as best he could. There was a dead body lying stiff and sightless on a table in the corner. Enjolras hadn't the heart to look closer to see who it was; he was certain that he would retch if he did.
The responsibility he felt for these people's lives was like an enormous weight bearing down on him, and every time he looked over at Éponine's still form that weight doubled. His eyes drifted from the gamine to Inspector Javert and he cursed him inwardly. His dishonest blood was dripping from the wound in his head – a very sizable gash to which Enjolras could put his name proudly – onto the floor of the tavern and mingling with the noble blood of his friends and followers. Bile rose in his throat. Had he been a disrespectful man, Enjolras felt sure that he would have spit upon the snake.
"Enjolras," Joly said quietly, putting a hand on his upper arm, "I advise you to leave. You don't want to hear this; she will be in pain."
He nodded silently, returning from his reverie as though he were waking from a dream. His sandy eyebrows drew together and disrupted the smoothness of his forehead. It would kill him to see what Joly was about to do. The tongs and knife he had set on the bar by Éponine's head promised to bring enough pain by themselves, but Enjolras' eyes lingered longest on the piece of iron Joly had heating over the fireplace in the back of the bar. The knot in his stomach did a somersault.
And yet he couldn't find the strength within him to move. Enjolras returned his gaze to Éponine's seemingly lifeless form. The blood from the hole in her shoulder had dyed the entire front of her disguise and her hair was clinging to her forehead from both the rain and the sweat from her rising fever. Her lips parted in silent pain and her placid expression was clouded with distress for one brief second before she fell deeper into her state of unconsciousness and her face became as smooth as stone. In that moment, not only was the gamine an embodiment of all that Enjolras was fighting for, she also became a manifestation of what he had helped to cause: a war-torn France and misplaced dedication. She could not possibly have been more beautiful to him than in that moment.
In three quick, painful strides he crossed the room and stood by the bar. Joly, who had been beginning to tie a tourniquet just above Éponine's injured hand, stepped back. Some things can wait, he thought. The medical student pretended as though he had dropped something necessary for what he was about to do and bent to pick it up.
Enjolras took Éponine's left hand in his own and brought it to his lips. When he heard Joly cough pointedly, signaling that he was about to stand up, Enjolras stopped and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. The kiss was reverent, chaste, and passionate all at once. It was a promise to fight for her; that he would not let her sacrifice have been in vain. It was willing her to live.
He stood quickly, feeling Joly's questioning eyes on his back, and straightened his ruined black vest embarrassedly. Turning on his heel Enjolras limped dignifiedly out of the Café, his new sense of purpose pushing against the weight of the responsibility and inevitable defeat. Had he stayed a moment longer, Enjolras would have noticed that Éponine's mouth had twitched. The bloodied corners pulled upwards into a weak smile.
"Marius," she whispered dreamily. She was trying with all of her might to swim out of the sea of unconsciousness. Just as she saw the shore, there was a searing pain in her hand and then it all went black.
A/N: Guys, I'm sick. Like, nasty sick. And I'm on medicine that makes me fall off of my bed in the middle of the night. And I wrote this on my way to Virginia today with my mom, while on this medicine stuff, and I'm sure none of it makes sense. But my beta reader, Alex, is a beautiful soul and tells me that it's good enough to post so I'm doing it anyway! I tried to upload this three times as Chapter 8 before I realized that, no, it was only 7. Oh my God, I quit. Bye.
P.S. I'm a page into Chapter 8 already, no worries. I'll update soon.