10

Enjolras was in despair. His friends, the men he held in his care, had satisfied themselves with listening to their leaders' fearless speeches and imagined the victory of which he spoke. His belief was infectious and Enjolras had made them believe as he did. "The people, too, must rise," had been his calming platitude before he had come inside to watch over Éponine.

However, the hope may be dying, the peoples' interest in the revolution may be waning, and the dawn was coming in a few hours and bringing with it a new battle. Can we survive it? Enjolras held his head in his hands. He was no longer beauty and soaring passion immortalized in rock by Donatello, but the epitome of weariness and anguish written of in Sophocles.

It was not the possibility that he should die that turned the blood in his veins to ice, but the gripping fear that his men – his friends, his pawns – would die. It may be true that they all longed for the dawn of a new day, the end of the night that is the king, but it hurt his stone heart to think it should come at such a cost. Enjolras shook his head, his hands still tangled in his blond mass of knots.

"All is not lost, not yet."

A soft groan came from Éponine as if in response. What happens to her when we fall? Another weight fell on his shoulders, threatening to crush him. There were ten crosses to bear now: nine for his friends and one for his poor little bird. That Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Grantaire – any of Les Amis – would die was a horrible fate, but it was what they had chosen. Éponine had no business dying at this barricade; she had not chosen that, not really.

Lifting his head, Enjolras looked up at Éponine where she lay on the hard wooden bar. He wished he could give her something to make her more comfortable, but Joly had already done the best he could by putting her ruined overcoat beneath her head as a pillow. The sight of the blood that covered her shirt front, blood that also covered his from where he had carried her, caused bile to rise in his throat. She was stirring, but weakly. Enjolras thought with vague dismay that, if the barricade were to fall, she would simply be put to death. All of her pain, her selflessness to save Marius, and Joly's efforts would be in vain, and Éponine would feel the bite of a lead bullet once more. It wouldn't fail to do its job that time.

"Is there anything I can do, Éponine? Is there any way to save everyone and France?" Enjolras whispered the questions as though he were praying, his voice low and passionate. Her fingers twitched on her uninjured hand and he moved haltingly to grasp it.

Enjolras' blue eyes were searching her face for any response, his heart pounding like a drum. Nothing. It did not take long before her hand stopped moving and her pulse slowed like a child drifting off to sleep. Enjolras sighed and removed his hand, letting his arm fall limply to his side. He fixed his eyes on his dirty boots and thought bleakly of how much he would give to be able to ask for her advice. The clever gamine would surely be able to come up with a trick or two to buy him and his men at least a little more time.

He thought back to the few times they had met outside of the weekly meetings at the Café Musain again. Inevitably Enjolras' thoughts returned to the night before, on the Pont Neuf. His inability to interact with women and quick temper when it came to Pontmercy had earned him a quick slap to the face. Of course it had hurt, but what had hurt more was to see the emotional turmoil and the fear swirling in Éponine's dark brown eyes. It was evident that she had already been to Hell and back, and tonight she had almost made the trip to Heaven.

How long had he spent with her on that bridge? He couldn't remember exactly, it had felt like days. Enjolras remembered the ringing of the bells of Notre Dame and the feeling of hugging the miserable and shaking girl to his chest.

"What can I do?"

Suddenly, his eyes snapped back to her face. Where there just was a dull, aching hurt and tentative hope, there was now something of the old clever and passionate fire in his gaze. Enjolras had experienced a glorious epiphany and the beauty of the hope it held was beginning to kindle the smothered fires of his soul.

"The bells!" he shouted, slapping his hands against his thighs and leaping to his feet, ignoring the painful protests of the wound in his left leg.

The well-oiled gears in his mind were turning at full speed and his spirits were soaring above the Café, above the miasma of sulfur and death, shaking loose the feeling of helpless resignation from his wings. Someone would take her to safety. If Gavroche could get out, then someone else could as well, correct? Enjolras may not be able to save the nation, but he could save her symbol. It was a battle he knew he could win, and that was enough to rally his spiraling spirits.

The new sense of purpose was a better medication than anything an apothecary could have prescribed for the persistent stinging of his stitches and it didn't slow Enjolras much in his rush to recruit the missing piece to his plan.

"I need a volunteer." The voice was loud, commanding, and had an edge of urgency to it.

Les Amis turned from their conversation or reverie to face the owner of the voice. Enjolras, silhouetted in the doorway of the Café Musain, stared back at his friends, majestic and terrible at once. He stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips and an expectant smile perched precariously on his lips. The fire that seemed to have radiated from within Enjolras before the battle, when the revolution was only a ghost and not a corpse of fresh and blood, had returned to his face.

"Wotcha need, m'sieur?" asked Gavroche, always eager to make an extra sou or two.

"I need someone stronger than you, my friend," Enjolras replied, shaking his head firmly and discouraging the remark the gamin was opening his mouth to make. Gavroche shut his mouth with a click of dirty teeth and he scampered off to a dark corner of the little square to play with the matted tabby, obviously sulking but paying no more attention to the older men.

"Mademoiselle Éponine must be taken out of here, to sanctuary."

"Where do you propose she go, Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, knocking back another swallow of wine cheekily.

"To Notre-Dame, to Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles, to Saint-Eustache, wherever!" Enjolras flung his arms open for emphasis. Grantaire snickered but made no reply.

Silence. A few men chuckled softly, almost incredulously. Enjolras' gaze swept across the group in the little street in an attempt at making eye contact and inspiring the same feeling of hope and urgency he felt in his friends. No eyes met his and, with a pointedly loud sigh of frustration, he turned back to the Café. He let his arms, still open from his impassioned speech, fall back to his sides, exhausted.

"I can do it, Enjolras."

It was Prouvaire. Enjolras turned on his heel, a proud and fierce smile forming on his perfect lips. The light of the smile was chasing the shadows of despair from the his face like the sunrise chases away the specters of nighttime.

"After all, I am a lover of lovers and happy endings, are I not?" Prouvaire stood and bowed dramatically. He straightened up and walked towards the Café and his leader, shrugging and smiling boyishly when Enjolras asked if he was certain.

Enjolras' heart leapt in his chest and he clapped Jehan appreciatively on the back, the best thanks he could give at the moment. The two men disappeared into the tavern.

Éponine was adrift in a terrifyingly vast sea of darkness. She was calling out for help, treading the ephemeral water of her thoughts. Never before had being alone frightened her so, and she was longing for a savior.

Occasionally Éponine fell beneath the tumultuous and jumbled waves in her attempts to cling to a single idea. These moments were the scariest she had ever experienced in her life; the world fell away and all sense fled. In these free falls, Éponine tried furiously to conjure the well-memorized face of Marius, her safety net and the thing that could make her happy even in her darkest hours, but to no avail. The face she saw dancing in her mind's eye was the marble face of Enjolras, the only voice she heard whispering soothing words was his. In her sleep, Éponine's feverish brow creased in confusion and frustration.

Through the constant ringing in her ears she heard the faint sounds of someone saying her name. The words were muffled, as though someone had put swaths of cotton in her ears. From where she was lost at sea, Éponine began to swim blindly towards the sound. The thought to which she clung and used as a raft to float through the darkness was her desire to figure out whose voice it was. Is it monsieur Marius, coming to check on me? Something in her gut told her she knew whose voice it was already.

The closer she came to the surface, the more Éponine understood of the conversation being had in that seemingly far off world.

"Take care, Jehan. Be gentle with her, she is still in a critical position."

That voice... it was very familiar, but whose was it? They weren't talking to her as she had originally thought, but apparently about her. How curious.

"I will, Enjolras."

Why is monsieur Enjolras here?

She kicked harder, pushing as fast as she could through the inky depths and towards the blue light that meant life. Éponine felt as though she had to speak with Enjolras, to explain her foolishness. She knew he had to be very cross with her, getting in the way as she had.

Only a few more feet, and then she'd be there – breaking the surface, breathing the thick June air of the Café, thick with gun smoke and the lingering feeling of rain. Her progress was interrupted by the sensation of being lifted by unsteady arms. Fear fluttered through her veins and held her frozen, leaving her to sink back into the darkness. Her body was swaying, as though being gently rocked as one would a small child. She dared not take a breath, her confusion and fear blocking out all other thoughts – and then she remembered monsieur Enjolras.

Her desire to explain herself, to ask of Marius' condition, thawed her frozen limbs. Éponine began to swim through the last few layers of thought again. One more stroke and her head would emerge – one more inch – she had made it.

"Monsieur Enjolras!" she gasped, her eyes snapping open. The arms that held her slackened in surprise, but her fall was broken by another pair that was much stronger, much steadier. She gave a yelp of pain when her shoulder was jostled in the shift of position and she heard Enjolras curse himself for his blunder.

Éponine looked around wildly, now confused and in pain. She saw Prouvaire, the original set of arms, staring back down at her in awe. Looking to her left her eyes fell on Enjolras, the possessor of the second set of arms and her savior once more. He was helping her despite that she had not helped him. Shame welled up in her throat and tears began to pool in the rims of her eyes.

"Shh, mademoiselle," he commanded sternly. The look in his eyes was warm, but the firm set of his jaw told her not to argue. Éponine nodded silently, willing her tears to stay unshed.

Prouvaire shifted awkwardly, reclaiming all of her weight and Enjolras took a tentative step back. Before he made it too far however, Éponine grabbed a corner of his open vest. Her tiny fingers were ghostly pale from how tightly she was clutching onto the soft and ruined fabric, but her eyes were quite alive.

"Monsieur, I am so sorry. Please believe me, I never meant to be so much trouble."

Enjolras was taken aback. His blank stare of surprise turned quickly into a soft smile and he gingerly removed her hand, finger by finger, from his vest before answering.

"What you did helped Pontmercy save us, Éponine. You have no need to be sorry." He turned his firm gaze on Prouvaire who had been standing uncomfortably with the girl in his arms for the exchange. He was watching the two interact with a small smile on his lips, enjoying witnessing the tenderness which the girl brought about in the stony leader. Enjolras nodded curtly, his sign for Prouvaire to get on his way.

"H-how is monsieur Marius?" asked Éponine, but she received no answer from either man. She started to ask again but was cut short by Enjolras.

"Get her to the first church you can, Jehan," he reminded him. Prouvaire's smile widened and he nodded in understanding before beginning to make his way out of the Café. Éponine craned her neck, biting through the pain of the movement, to look back at Enjolras, clearly confused.

Enjolras' eyes were sad and tired, but he was smiling triumphantly. He looked as though he had won a battle and lost the war simultaneously. Prouvaire stepped outside and Éponine lost sight of Enjolras. She turned her head back around, her eyes sweeping the barricade before her for Marius. There was no sign of him. Prouvaire continued his march across the street and, coming to one of the exits in the back side of the barricades that flanked the Café Musain, he set Éponine down on a discarded chair that had slipped from its spot in the pile. She took one last look at the Café while Prouvaire worked to make a hole, and she saw Enjolras standing behind the broken window.

"Goodbye, mademoiselle Éponine."

A/N: Sorry it took so long! I had an issue with figuring out where to take it, but I had a lovely helper to figure it all out: IrishSongBird! She's the b-e-s-t best. I hope you guys like it, and sorry once more that it took so long. Have a happy evening!