Enjolras kept his distance from her, eyeing her long saber, wondering how she planned to attack him. Éponine looked neither blood-drunk nor mad, and he'd yet to face a rational enemy. His heart pounded with adrenaline and concern though he did not let his features show it.

There was a ferocity in her eyes, a look of determination that matched his own and that chilled him. As she stepped forward, he stepped back, his eyes glancing from her sword and dagger to her face, but neither her expression nor body language gave her away. He tightened his jaw, hating the uncertainty, especially knowing that he only had two vials left. As strong as he was, he'd make the fight quick, he was sure of it.

Enjolras moved as she did, watching her light strides, the bounce of her walk, her calm composure as she approached him. She then lunged at him, thrusting her saber with the intent to strike, but Enjolras dodged her attack. He swung at her but she was just as quick, and escaped the teeth of his cleaver. She moved with the air that took her and struck with a ferocity that burned within her eyes. Her blade sank into the flesh on his upper arm, and Enjorlas hissed and stepped back. He glanced at the wound, spying the red, and quickly turned back at Éponine whose fixed expression remained unwavering. Enjorlas glared at her, the blood in his veins like scolding fire. He swung the cleaver, elongating the blade, and he rushed for her. He raised his weapon and swung, but before he could complete the motion, the woman rolled beneath his arm. She sliced her dagger into Enjolras's side, and he staggered, gasping out as he pressed a hand to the wound. She persisted and he felt himself panic, and when she went to cut him again, Enjolras swung his cleaver with the strength he could conjure. Éponine gasped, a sharp, shrill sound, and her cap fell to the ground, letting lose raven hair. She stepped back, cupping her cheek, and Enjolras quickly took a blood vial and injected it into his thigh.

Warmth took over his senses, and he straightened, his muscles aching with inhuman strength as his wounds healed. This will be quick, he reminded himself, and eagerly watched as Éponine removed her hand from her face. A lovely line of crimson dripped like petals from that angry cut and her jaw clenched.

Enjolras wasted no time and rushed at her, his cleaver cutting into the air as he transformed the blade back into the short-ranged, swifter version. Its teeth tore passed her clothing and ate into her flesh, tearing away skin and blood. But she, like the rest of his friends, was much stronger than anticipated. One strike or multiple would not be enough to end her, Enjolras knew better. He persisted as she had, delivering blow after blow and his heart raced with a barrage of butterflies. And as the bloody strikes were driven into her body, Éponine groaned in pain and relinquished her hold on her saber. Enjolras heard it clatter to the floor, and he knew had her. He went to strike her again, the one to end her for good, but as he brought his cleaver down, she flipped her dagger in her left hand, the blade protecting the fatal veins in her wrist. The serrated blade of the cleaver locked with her dagger and for an instance, Enjolras saw her smile. She then grabbed his right wrist with her free hand. She spun, pulling him to her and securing herself in the crook of his arm, and he could feel her back against his front. Before he could think to react, with the dagger still in her left hand, she leaned down and buried the blade into his lower back at his kidney. He screamed out and she kicked him in the abdomen, forcing the air from his lungs as she sent him back.

Enjolras hissed and groaned, huffing and growling as he pressed his hand to into the gaping wound. Sweat trickled at his forehead and he barred his teeth, seething. Éponine picked up her saber with calm dignity that sickened him. They locked eyes with each other and as Éponine stepped to approach him, he raised his pistol and fired at her. The bullet flew passed her and Enjolras could not be sure if he had truly missed his mark or if she had dodged it. She ran at him and he elongated his saw cleaver again and raised his arm. She rolled beneath his swing and sunk her dagger into the pit of his arm. The muscles of his hand and arm gave and he lost his hold on the cleaver. The weapon hit the wood floor with a heavy clang, and that was when Éponine drove her sword into his chest.

Enjolras could only groan, his strength a fleeting thing, and he felt he had been deceived by the vial he had taken. He did not know when he dropped his pistol, only aware of the absence of its weight. He could feel the blood welling up in his throat as the pain sent his body into terrible shock. His knees threatened to give out, and Éponine did not pull the sword from him. He stared at her, gasping, waiting for her to end him, and instead she smiled. Enjolras glared at her as his vision began to blur and senses dulled. She leaned in close, wrapping her left arm about him. Éponine embraced him, her lips, her breath at his ear. She smelled of the flowers in the garden, or perhaps a breeze had blown the scents in. She held him still as she pulled the sword from him, and Enjolras gasped out which sounded like relief. Her dark eyes stared down at him and they were the last he saw as he fell to the ground, the chill and the dark taking him back to the Hunter's Dream.

His vision wavered, flickers of color eclipsed by darkness. He could hear a woman's laugh, a gentle ring that thrilled him though he did not understand why. He blinked slowly, the shadowed colors clearing slightly as he made sense of a blur of warm light in the dark. He blinked again and the scene before him shifted to something else entirely, a garden and a woman. This scene too was just as blurry as the first, the colors muddled and faded. Her back was to him, that he was sure, her black hair let loose to kiss her shoulders and back; her dress—now he could see more clearly—was a velvet mirror of the roses that grew beside her. His vision faded again, and he felt helpless to it as he watched his own memories, subjected to what his mind was willing to reveal and blind to the rest. Whatever his mind could relinquish was a secret to him and Enjolras felt a prisoner within himself. He was returned to the dark scene and the warm light. He recognized a burning candle on a nightstand to his left beside him, and he felt the soft fabric of a bed under his knees. His eyes slowly moved to spy glistening pale skin but he could not force the eyes to move as he wished, trapped within the memory. The skin, he saw, was a shoulder, bony and frail, and he could see a small portion of the arm that disappeared into the dark edges of his vision.

He watched as the scene transformed back to the woman in the garden. She was much closer now, her back still to him as the wind took her hair. Enjolras could see her ear, the side of her face, and noticed the lone sunflower she was staring at which grew amongst the roses. Frustration ate through his limbs, his stomach, his chest, and his mind screamed for clarity. He heard a voice speak, his own voice, and only then did he realize he had moved his mouth; yet, he hadn't heard the words he himself had spoken. It should have scared him, this bizarre sensation of feeling not truly within his own body, but, with each step closer to her, the more he felt his own reclamation. And then, to his relief, the woman before him moved, turning to look at him and his heart leaped up into his throat. But this was a different feeling, not one driven by fear or horror or disgust. No, what he felt was joy and something else, something brighter.

He knew the face, knew the woman who stood before him, and knew the feelings and the memories that danced from her presence.

"Éponine," was the word he had uttered and she had turned upon hearing his voice.

She smiled at him now, lifting a rose to greet her lips, "Mon coeur."

Éponine smiled at him and he smiled back, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. She leaned into his hand, pressing her lips into his palm, and upon lovely Éponine's face, his vision shimmered and melted, returning him back to the dark room. She lay beneath him in this memory, a look of ecstasy in her expression, her hair matted across her face. And he realized then what that something else was, and he thought his heart full enough to burst. She gripped his arm, her nails biting in to his skin, her voice singing with his name, and he leaned down—finally in control of himself within his memories—and he kissed her, wrapping his hands into her obsidian hair, his tongue tasting her name, "Éppie."

Enjolras's eyes opened then, his eyes glancing over the tombstones, the grass, the garden, feeling the cool mist on his skin, and the scent of earth. He moved, shifting as he realized that he was lying face down on the cobblestone path and before him stood porcelain laced in velvet. He looked up, finally seeing the face that he'd been missing for so long.

"Éponine." He breathed.

She did not smile, her expression unwavering emptiness, and she stepped closer to him before sliding to her knees. He stared into her face, her eyes of russet glass, and she presented her hand to him. He glanced at it, the joints that connected her fingers, and he noticed how akin her doll's hand was to bone. Regardless, he took it, his heart leaping to know her touch, and she helped him up to stand.

"Éponine," he said again in disbelief.

"Enjolras," she replied somberly.

His heart skipped a beat, or perhaps it stopped entirely for he felt himself go cold. Sudden shame and guilt began to fester and eat him hollow. How could he have forgotten her so entirely? His heart then remembered itself, sending his blood into an overwhelming frenzy and his limbs began to shake, his mind and body like shattered glass. His throat worked, burning as he swallowed, and he could not move despite himself, though he yearned to touch her, to feel her, to hold her in his arms. But he feared he'd break at her touch. And yet, he'd welcome it.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his eyes burning.

She shook her head, "You would remember, sooner or later."

He blinked, tears spilling over, "I'd forgotten you, Éponine. And you have been with me the entire time."

The Doll smiled then, a look of grief and longing. "I have. But I'm not your Éponine."

Enjolras blinked, his lips parting. But of course, how could a doll be his Éponine, and yet, he hated the words still. His mind recalled moments with her, when he longed for her company, for the security of the Hunter's Dream. This Éponine who was kind and reassuring, gentle and tender despite the distance she kept from him. And then he thought of the woman of the Musain, the same face and an utter contrast.

Enjolras hesitated, testing the words in his mouth. "The Éponine of the Nightmare… She's so drastically different."

"Two parts of a fractured soul, one that cannot be reclaimed in this world."

"Please, speak plainly," he said, swallowing hard, his voice soft. "No more secrets. I've remembered it all. Surely this time, haven't I?"

The Doll's silence was his answer and he bristled.

"How many more times must I die? What else must I do?"

The Doll paused before answering, "Feuilly was right."

His lips parted and his eyes widened as blood drained from his face, turning his skin ashen. His imagination betrayed him, presenting him an Éponine slathered with blood, a gaping maw of a wound, and empty eyes, a true corpse in the Nightmare. He imagined the voice, the smile, the touch of the real Éponine Thénardier, memories of her that filled his heart with love and longing, his true Éponine that the Dream reinvented as the Doll and the Nightmare twisted into a living corpse.

He shook his head, "No. I can't. I won't. I'll save her."

The Doll watched him, his body violently shaking again, his frantic expression, and listened to the plea within his cracking of his voice.

"Enjolras," she said gently, "The Nightmare is more than what you are. It is not one for you to manipulate. You cannot save her as you could not save your friends."

He steeled himself at the mention of his friends. He gritted his teeth, "I have to try."

She nodded, "I know." She paused, glancing down at her hands, the jointed fingers that disappeared underneath the opposite hand she held and then looked back up at him. "But she is not your Éponine, just as I am not."

Enjolras saw the sorrow those words brought the Doll, and grief encased him, leaving him cold. He remembered her words, "Would you ever think to love me?" and he remembered the same despair in her eyes. He did, didn't he? And as he looked at her, he saw his Éponine and for an instant, despite such shared melancholy, he felt his heart warm. Neither the Doll nor the one of the Nightmare were his beloved Éponine, but he could not help the feelings they both invoked.

"You must go," she said.

"I'll stay a moment more." He replied, his voice now stern with conviction.

He breathed deeply, finding himself stronger, more assure though never really ready. Damn whatever secret, as long as he could spare Éponine's life. He failed his friends, but he refused to fail her.

The Doll did not look at him now, staring off into the garden. Enjolras closed the space between them, stealing her attention, and he saw her glistening eyes. He wondered then if she could cry. He lifted his hand and tenderly stroked her cheek, and her lips parted at his touch. He leaned in and he thought perhaps to kiss her, but instead pressed his cheek against her opposite, feeling the cool, smooth sensation of porcelain. He closed his eyes, sighing into her, wishing then the Dream would unburden his heavy heart.

"I'll save you both." He whispered.

He forced himself to part from her, turning his back and going to the headstone. He spied the new words beneath "Paris Graveyard" that read "Musain Barricade". He touched them without a final glance at the Doll, feeling her eyes on him, watching him as he vanished from the Dream.

There were no parting words this time though he listened for them dearly even now that he had returned to the Nightmare. The glow and the sight of the moon rendered him motionless. The silver light had transformed and the blood moon replaced the cool glow. And the light of the blood moon overtook his surroundings, saturating the colors into hues and shades of red all around him.

Enjolras blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the harsh, unrelenting color. He stood in the pool of blood, his back to the barricade, staring up at the café Musain. He breathed out, knowing she was waiting for him. For a moment, he closed his eyes before glancing at the lantern at his side. He swallowed, his hands twitching. But he would not take hold his weapons. He would return to her with no intention of a threat. He would save her before the night was through.