"Éponine," Enjolras's voice gently shook her. The lullaby she heard in her dream from a long-ago memory kept ringing in her ears.

Don't you fret, petite Éponine,

You don't feel any pain

A little fall of rain

Can hardly hurt you now….

"Five more minutes," she murmured.

And I will keep you safe,

And I will keep you close,

And rain will make the flowers grow.

"Éponine, we're missing school." Finally his words woke her. Her eyes snapped open to see his blurry form hovering over her. His shirt was back on, and his disheveled hair had more the appearance of a halo than anything else. She managed a smile.

"Oh well," she breathed. "It's one day."

She could hardly see, but she thought that Enjolras smiled at her. His hand rubbed the exposed skin on her shoulder. "I just don't know why my alarm didn't go off…."

"The two of you needed some sleep," the voice of Enjolras's mother surprised both of them, and Enjolras leaped away from Éponine. Instead of seeing an angry or protective gleam in the woman's eyes, Éponine just saw amusement at Enjolras's reaction. "Luke, you stay home and rest that ankle. Éponine, is it? We're going shopping."

"Uh…. We are?" Éponine felt dumb asking it, but thankfully Mrs. Enjolras just smiled.

"I didn't mean to snoop, sweetie, but I was cleaning my daughter's room and I saw that most of your clothing is either Luke's or mine," she said, bustling about Enjolras's room. She picked up a few discarded items and casually put them in a laundry basket as she spoke. "I don't know why you're here, but I'm sure you can tell me while we're out. In the meantime, I'm going to treat you the way I'd treat my daughter."

Enjolras spoke up. "Mom, you don't have a—"

"Can you be ready in ten minutes?" Mrs. Enjolras cut off her son, smiling at Éponine. The girl couldn't help but smile back.

"Sure," she answered. Mrs. Enjolras nodded at the teenagers and swept gracefully out of the room. Once she was gone, Éponine turned to Enjolras. "I thought you said you didn't have a sister. That she wasn't born or something."

"I mean, that's what I assumed," Enjolras stood gingerly, only for Éponine to gently ease him back down onto the bed. "She's pretty secretive about… things."

"Oh," Éponine side-eyed him. "Do I have anything to worry about while being alone with your mom….?"

"No, only the sister thing. She's pretty insistent that this mystery girl exists, but doesn't say much about her," Enjolras gave her a half-grin. As if reminding herself that she could, Éponine swept down and pecked his lips. When she pulled away, there was a toothy smile on his face.

"See you later?" she asked.

"Yeah," Enjolras pulled the covers back up around his bruised body. As Éponine made sure he didn't hurt himself, the lullaby popped back into her head. It was a reminder of her deceased mother, who used to sing that to her when the nights under the bridge got bad. And when TB claimed the fading woman, it was Éponine's turn to sing it. And as she helped Enjolras get comfortable, she hummed it subconsciously.

He froze under her hands. "What are you humming?"

She frowned. "Just some lullaby. Why?"

"Can you sing it for me?" Enjolras asked. Éponine laughed.

"You don't want me to sing—"

"Humor me. I think I've heard it before…."

"Don't you fret, Monsieur Enjolras," she sang softly and out of tune, watching as his face grew stony. However, despite his negative expression, she could tell that he didn't want her to stop singing. "You don't feel any pain. A little fall of rain can hardly hurt you now. I'm here, that's all you need to know. And I will keep you safe, and I will keep you close and—"

"Rain will make the flowers grow," Enjolras finished, much to Éponine's shock.

"How do you know th—"

"Keep singing," his voice sounded pained. Éponine nervously nodded and heeded his request.

"You will live, Enjolras, says God above. I will heal your wounds with words of love," she sang softly. One of her hands cupped his face, and his hand came to entwine with her fingers as their joined hands lay across his cheekbone. "I'll hold you know, and let it be. Shelter thee, comfort thee. You will live a hundred years, and I will show you how. I won't desert you now."

"The rain can't hurt me now," Enjolras murmured. He had a musical voice, probably due to his singing history.

Still surprised and wondering how Enjolras knew her family's lullaby that, as far as she knew, was never published, Éponine picked up where he left off, "This rain will wash away what's past. And you will keep me safe, and you will keep me close. I'll sleep in your embrace at last! The rain that brings you here is heaven blessed. The sky begins to clear and I'm at rest. A breath away from where you are. I've come home from so far—wait, are you crying?"

Sure enough, Enjolras's eyes were strangely bright. He released her hand and wiped under his eyelashes. "You were singing that," he told her seriously. "Last night."

"I didn't—"

"—in my dream," Enjolras seemed to be slowly remembering something. "But you sang it to Marius and not me."

"You mean when I got shot?" she joked, remembering what he told her. Once again she fought the nausea that rose when she thought of her very similar nightmare. Enjolras nodded in response to her. "I don't think I'd sing if I were dying," she smiled at him and kissed his slightly feverish forehead.

"Still… I've never heard it before…" Enjolras frowned. Éponine just shrugged.

"Maybe you have. I sang it to Gavroche a lot when he was little. Maybe you heard him sing it one day or something."

"Maybe…"

"I'm going to go shopping with your mom. Take care of yourself, alright?"

Grantaire walked in with his mother, feeling out of place. His earbuds blared rock music into his ears and his phone was in his hand while he strode through isles of antiques. His mother was chatting to him, but with his music in he couldn't hear anything she said. So he just nodded and occasionally smiled. However, when his mother came across a particularly old trunk and started to look for a price tag, an employee came over. Grantaire popped the earbuds out.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but this is not for sale," the worker said. She seemed particularly protective of the trunk for whatever reason. To Grant it looked like a piece of useless shit.

"Oh, why not? It's such a lovely thing to show to my students… It's from the turn of the century, correct?"

"The original owner died around 1895, so probably a few years before that," the worker said. Her name tag read 'June'. "I could pop it open and show you the inside, if you'd like. You just can't touch anything."

"Mom, can I go next door and get a soda or something?" Grantaire complained. His mother shot him a withering look.

"No. Stay; maybe you'll learn something," she said to him, before turning to June. The trunk was carefully set on the tile floor and opened. A bit of dust colored the air, but Grantaire's attention was seized. Inside the trunk appeared to be a variety of things. There was a notebook, several covered canvas paintings, and a few clothing items. The clothes were especially fascinating, as he felt as though he remembered them from somewhere. There was a brown cap, a red vest with golden embellishments, a worn-through shoe, and a top hat. The red vest was wrapped around a wine bottle, protecting it. Grantaire reached out to investigate, only for his hand to be swatted away.

"No touching," June scolded. She handed Grantaire a pair of rubber gloves. "You can touch now, if you like, just be very careful."

"What do you know about the owner?" Grantaire's mom asked. June smiled; evidentially the history of the trunk was a fascination of hers.

"The woman's name was Azelma Thérnardier. She was a French immigrant to America in 1833 and worked with her father on a slave ship,"

"That's terrible!" Grantaire murmured. He was thinking.. he knew the name from somewhere…

"Ah, see, you'd think that," June's smile grew. "Azelma was a fascinating girl. She ended up running away with a slave girl to New Orleans. In fact, she was one of the few people of the time who were openly bisexual. It was this slave girl who taught her how to write. However, before that she lived in France for fifteen years, Paris for seven. She suffered extreme poverty during her time in the city and, as it happens in almost every story, she fell in love."

"That's so sweet!" Grantaire's mother cooed. She also had on a pair of gloves, and while Grantaire carefully unwrapped the wine bottle, his mother uncovered one of the paintings. "Is this her?"

The painting was of a plain woman with dark hair and severely pale features. She seemed to be in her thirties or forties, and for whatever reason she was very familiar to Grantaire.

"Yes. That was her in… 1860 I believe."

Grantaire looked down at the wine bottle. It was dirty, but not from dust. Something like rust appeared to cover the glass, and when he popped the cork the smell that emerged sent him gagging. June snatched the bottle from his hands and quickly covered it again.

"What is in that thing?" Grantaire gasped. June frowned.

"Honestly? Old blood," June turned towards his mother. "See, this is where her story gets sad. You are a history professor. I'm sure you know of the rebellions that dotted the timeline between Napoleon's rule and the final installation of the French republic?"

"Yes, yes, of course. The two major ones were the July Revolution of 1830 and the Student Rebellion of 1832," Grantaire's mother said.

"Azelma fell in love with a student who died in the 1832 rebellion. She not only lost her lover in the massacre, but also her older sister and her younger brother. I believe that the hat and shoe belonged to her siblings and the top hat to her lover. His name was Nicolas de Courfeyrac, and he left her pregnant with her first and only child."

Grantaire started. Did he hear that right? Courfeyrac…? As in… Nick Courfeyrac?

"How old was the poor girl?"

"Either fifteen or sixteen—tragically young, either way."

Grantaire was no longer paying attention. Courfeyrac's name struck him… perhaps he was related to this old guy somehow. He looked down at the item that June had replaced carefully in the trunk. Something about the smelly wine bottle struck him as familiar, and he didn't know why. He found himself speaking up about it, "What's with the bottle?"

"She wrote in one of her journals that she went to the barricades after they fell and collected debris. Obviously the accessories have sentimental value, but the vest and the bottle… The bottle, for sure, is little more than a silly souvenir. However, the vest… It belonged to 'the golden boy'."

"Who?"

"This man," June uncovered the second painting and turned it to face Grantaire and his mother. He froze completely, unable to believe his eyes.

Of the five people depicted, he knew every single one of them. Front and center was a face that he knew all too well. Wearing the red vest and standing atop a symbolic pile of headstones, skeletons, and coffins was—

"Creepy, isn't it?" Grantaire's mom asked. "The caption… that's French. It says… The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France, and rain will make the flowers grow."

He blurted, "Enjolras."

"I'm sorry?" June turned to him. Grantaire took a shaky step forward. Enjolras's likeness was front and center. Beside him was Marius. Clinging to Marius's leg was Éponine, depicted in the outfit of a boy. Blood coated her shirt and her hand. Sitting at Enjolras's feet were Courfeyrac and Gavroche, both bloody.

"It does look like Luke, you're right! Oh, June, don't listen to him… that just looks like his friend…" Grantaire's mom said.

"He's not my friend if he hates me," Grantaire snapped. His head reeled. "And it's more than just him. I know these people…"

June didn't seem to doubt Grantaire the way his mother did. She placed a hand on his arm. "What are their names?"

"Éponine Jondrette, Marius Pontmercy, Luke Enjolras, Gavroche jondrette, Nick Courfeyrac," Grant whispered.

June's eyes widened. "Have you studied them in history, or—"

"No, they're my friends."

"You're almost exactly right," she said to him. "Except… 'Jondrette' was a false name used by the Thérnardier's during most of their stay in Paris. It wasn't their real name."

"What happened to them?" Grantaire felt himself asking with a dry mouth. June smiled sadly.

"Azelma wrote a tale of her life, never published. It's in her journals. In it, she claims that the evil Golden Boy and Marius Pontmercy lured them all to their deaths. Upon further research, I found out that Luc Enjolras, a.k.a 'Golden Boy', was the leader of a prominent student political group called Les Amis de l'ABC. He and his friends built a barricade on the night of June 5th 1832. It fell by dawn."

"Yes, but how did they die?"

"… Éponine followed Marius Pontmercy there in order to deliver a letter from his beloved. She took a bullet that was aimed for him. Thanks to her and his beloved's father, Marius was the sole survivor of the St. Denis barricade."

"What about 'roche—I mean Gavroche?"

"He climbed over the barricade to fetch ammunition from the dead bodies on the other side. The National Guard fired at him and killed the boy. He was hardly twelve."

"And Courfeyrac?"

"He was simply killed when the barricade was overrun." Before Grantaire could say anything about the remaining figure, June filled in, "Luc Enjolras was cornered in the top floor of a wine shop. He admitted to his crimes and was killed by a make-shift firing squad, along with one of the other surviving members of his affiliation. I believe that it is from this second man that Azelma got the bottle."

"What was his name?" Grantaire knew who it was. He just had to hear it out loud to make sure.

"Georges Grantaire."

… so this turned into a reincarnation fic. Sorry not sorry.