Enjolras made his way back up through the Musain, and upon reaching the second floor, his eyes glanced over at the madwoman that had spoken to him before she died. He recognized her now, his memories retrieving for him the same familiar melancholy expression, one that matched her sister's.

"Azelma," he whispered, his heart going out to her.

Staring at the body slumped against the wall, Enjolras wondered what had brought her to such a state. Azelma had been kind to him in his reality, grateful to him for taking care of her elder sister. He cursed the Nightmare, and continued up, returning to the little room and the looming dark and the little boy on the bed. Gavroche had remained where he was, unmoving despite his quivering, and Enjolras thought that perhaps he had died. But the closer he came to the child, he could then hear his mutterings. Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to listen to the fragile voice that emitted from the broken body before him. Did the Nightmare hope to torment him with a creature neither dead nor living and in a perpetual state of despair and disbelief? Enjolras could not break Gavroche of his unclear reality. Did he have the heart to set him free? Would the Nightmare allow it?

Enjolra stooped down, staring at the little face that brought so many memories. His heart beat was slow, a quiet pang with every thud, and he placed his hand on the child's face. Gavroche's skin was cold, stone in the shadow, and he did not respond to the warmth of Enjolras's hand. Enjolras took a breath, forced himself not to hesitate and unlatched the blade from his gauntlet. The blade sunk into Gavroche's throat, and Enjolras expected a reaction. However, there was no hitch in Gavroche's voice, no gurgled groan, no sigh of relief, not even a flinch. There was nothing from the boy even as Enjolras removed the blade and blood seeped from his throat. Enjolras watched and waited and hoped to see the boy become a corpse, to end his suffering and, in turn, selfishly, end a faction of Enjolras's own suffering.

But as he watched and as he waited, Enjolras felt his heartbeat quicken then slow with the time that silently stilled too. Gavroche continued to shiver and the blood continued to flow, and he did not die as Enjolras had anticipated. Enjolras breathed out, his fingertips tingling, the hairs on the back of his neck on end, hating what the Nightmare had made just for him. He stepped back, glancing about the dark room before looking back at Gavroche. He gritted his teeth and glared at the boy, the manifestation of the Nightmare, and turned his back to him, going for the door.

The bells began to ring again as Enjolras opened the door, and the scents of the garden invited him back as the cool wind blew over the Musain. A sense of foreboding overwhelmed him in view of the garden, the same flowers of his memories now tainted unholy crimson by the light of the moon. And in the garden Éponine stood, her weapons in hand as she had been waiting.

"Moon-scented hunter," Éponine spoke. "Return to me again and again, and I'll stop you. The secret is mine to maintain, and I'll prolong the night as I must to preserve it."

"Éponine," Enjolras said, raising his hands, beseeching. "Please, I have not come to fight."

She smirked, "You'll water my garden with blood you'll endlessly shed."

"Éponine, please! Remember me, remember who I am, who you are! You don't have to kill me."

"I remember well enough, Enjolras, and it matters not." She returned evenly, stepping forward.

The bells ceased after twelve long chimes, but Enjolras did not know it, unable to escape the pounding in his ears that her words had summoned. He stared at her and could not bring himself to move even as she approached him. Before him all he could see was the woman of his memories, the woman that incited feelings that hindered his process of thought, and she who meant to kill him. And as the Doll reminded him, neither were one of the same, but he could not bring himself to separate fact and fiction, even as Éponine buried in saber into and through his gut.

He stared at her, into her dark, dark eyes, but he did not see himself in the reflection of them. "Éppie…" He uttered, faint and weak like a far away cry.

She did not look upon him in his dying moments with any change of expression, with any look of care or empathy. She stared at him with the eyes of indifference, as one would look upon an insect, an ant, a gnat. And as she let him drop back, her blade drinking his blood, his body collapsed on the earth, he saw her silhouette against the red moon. He choked and coughed up crimson, shuddering out his last, and Éponine and the moon turned to black.

Enjolras reawakened again in the Hunter's Dream, fear, disbelief, despair taking hold of him that he did not stop for the Doll. He darted for the headstone and touched it to swiftly return back to the Nightmare. He could not comprehend that his promise could not be fulfilled, that he could do nothing to save the woman of the Nightmare and the woman of the Dream. He'd refuse to accept it, that Éponine's death was his only option. He'd die a thousand times before harming her again; let the Nightmare give in to him. Let his Éponine burst through the corpse that resolved to end him. He'd set free the corpse and the Doll; he had to or there was nothing left of him.

He returned to the garden atop the Musain, his insides twisting and burning and rotting. The bells sang twelve somber bellows, traveling with the breeze, and there she stood, both blades in her hands while he came with nothing.

"Éponine…"

She said nothing, approaching him again as the bells beat their endless toll.

He remained rooted to the earth. "Don't…"

She echoed no reply, the inferno of Paris within her eyes as her footsteps crunched and sunk into the dirt and grass on the garden, the sound of it rippling through him.

"Please, Éponine," his voice cracked, eyes stinging. "You're my—"

With a flick of her wrist she slit his throat before he could finish. He wheezed, his arteries cut and eyes widening as blood rushed from his throat. He reached up to wrap his fingers about the gaping wound. He croaked out her name, watching as she walked away. He collapsed, feeling himself grow cold, spurting blood before he died.

Enjolras returned again and again, pleading, beseeching, and she murdered him again and again. She cut him to pieces, brutally stabbed him, decapitated him, dismembered him, and willingly, desperately, he came back to her. And each death brought him lower, chipping away at what little hope he had. What more could he do against her unwavering will? She would hear nothing of his pleas, his declarations. And the Doll watched in agony as he continuously returned to the Dream, as he returned choking and coughing in utter pain and despair. She begged him to see reason, but Enjolras saw nothing but the Éponine from his Paris. "I'll save them both," his heart screamed, but his mind knew otherwise no matter how hard he fought to deny it.

He went to her again, any hope he once had lost to him. Instead of watching the blood-drunk woman before him, he closed his eyes, seeing a smile against pale skin and obsidian eyes to match her hair. This was his that neither the Nightmare nor the Dream could reach, his memories of Éponine Thénardier that calmed his heart and eased his mind. And yet, he felt himself chill at the thought of her, feeling how dearly he missed her warmth, her touch. He yearned for her, more than anything her affection to wake him from this torturous hell. It was the Nightmare's Éponine who stole him from his thoughts with the kiss of her saber. He died with the Éponine's smile reflecting in his eyes.

"Enjolras, please." The Doll pleaded as he awoke again in the Hunter's Dream.

Enjolras wheezed and coughed, tears dripping from his eyelids as he stood to his feet. "One more time," he thought to himself, the same words he had thought time and time again. He mustn't stop, not now. His body ached with sorrow and longing.

Back in the Nightmare, the corpse of Éponine was unrelenting in her purpose, just as ruthless as their very first encounter. She attacked him and this time, instead of giving in to her, he watched her blade and dodged her attack. Weaponless, he was careful to keep both her sword and dagger at bay, maneuvering around her attacks. But for all his caution, she learned as he did, and with her dagger she cut into his upper arm. He hissed but did not step back, seeing his opportunity as she pulled back her left arm to add more power to her right-handed swing. At this he grabbed her right wrist and twisted her entire arm, straining the muscles and stressing the bones to break. Éponine grunted but did not give. Enjolras knew that if he pressured his hold he would break her arm. His hesitation cost him and she sunk her dagger into his abdomen. He groaned, the pain coursing through him like liquor through a drunkard. But his fight wasn't over. This wasn't what he wanted. He stared into Éponine's eyes, malice as sharp as her blade cutting through him. He could not care, not now, not when all he wanted was her touch. He kissed her, and he realized then just how cold her purple lips were. It was a bloody kiss of teeth, metal, and salt. It was hard and desperate and empty and cold all at once, and even as a line of red seeped from his mouth, he refused to pull away. The black and the Dream called to him. Éponine sang his name in his mind, lulling him into the dark. It was in his death that he was pulled from her lips, collapsing before her in a heap.

Enjolras awoke again in the Dream, the Doll standing before him with the same melancholy expression.

"Must you torture yourself so with an endeavor that bares no fruit?" The Doll said.

Enjolras stood, the cool scent of the garden filling his lungs but the taste of blood lingered.

"What more can I do?" He muttered to the breeze.

The Doll stepped forward, her footsteps clicking from the cobblestone to rustle in the grass of the garden. She touched his hand and he smiled lightly, bitterly. Her porcelain hand was cold as bone.

"You must keep going."

Enjolras stared into her eyes, the same ebony eyes, and his heart ached again. He pulled his hand from hers and stepped back. The Doll's lips parted, and she glanced down at her own hands before lacing her fingers together in front of her. The breeze picked up and tossed her hair and grief overcame him as he watched her.

"She is not your Éponine. She exists to preserve the secret your mind has locked away," the Doll said. "What stays your hand?"

Enjolras turned from her, glancing over the flowers of the garden. He wondered if this garden was one he had known before the Dream, if it was pulled from his memories to bring comfort in the Dream. The throat of a rose budded with tongues of petals and in his mind, Éponine who regarded him with joy, with tenderness, with affection, bloomed.

"I remember my days shared with Éponine. But I do not know what has become of her. I cannot recall if I saw her before the revolution. I—" He paused, gritting his teeth. Unbearable thoughts sent him into a panic, and his hands began to shake. He struggled to swallow the lump in his throat before turning back to the Doll. "I'm afraid. There is something I cannot remember, and it terrifies me. If I kill that Éponine, what if I lose my Éponine as well?"

The Doll stepped closer, so close their bodies nearly touched, and stared up into his eyes, "You will never lose the woman of your memories. She stays with you as long as you live. But you cannot truly live, not in masked truth."

"Everyone I love is gone." Enjolras muttered miserably, "This half-truth is all I have left."

The Doll blinked and frowned with the hurt she could not hide, her eyes shimmering with sadness. "You have me."

Enjolras glanced down at her hands again, the hands of a doll, and looked back up into the face that mimicked Éponine's. He forced a smile, a quick twitch of his lips that was easily missed. The Doll sighed deeply of sorrow and longing, and Enjolras, to comfort himself and the Doll, placed a kiss upon her brow. He lips pressed for longer than a moment, and his heart thudded slower, his thoughts etherizing him.

After some time in the Dream with the Doll, Enjolras forced himself to return to the Hunter's Nightmare. This time, with his weapons in hand, he climbed the Musain. He stood before her again in the middle of the garden, the moonlight illuminating the life with red, and the bells sang their damned song. In spite of spying the weapons he had previously rejected, Éponine said nothing, gripping her blades as she had done countless times before. Enjolras tightly clutched his saw cleaver and pistol, and a breeze sent such a chill up his spine he feared he'd go numb. He watched her has she moved, the sway of her body and how her trench coat flowed behind her. Her hair was let loose, no longer contained by her hat she had haphazardly left sitting in the open room from their first battle. Her eyes were, too, just as they always were, determined, ferocious, and pitiless. Enjolras breathed out and reached down to touch his belt, feeling for vials. "One more left," he uttered to himself.

"I don't want to do this," Enjolras said.

Éponine did not say anything, stepping toward him.

"I love you, Éppie." He spoke the words softly, more to himself than to her, but still he wondered if the wind carried the words far enough for her to hear.

It did not matter for it was Éponine who attacked first. She swung with all her strength, which Enjolras could no doubt feel as he blocked with the blunt of his cleaver. But he was ready, he could manage, having dodged against her attacks and died to them plenty of times to know her favorite movements. He pushed her off of him before she could sneak her dagger into whatever part of him that was vulnerable. They moved together like a dance, whatever step she took, he took back, she attacked, and he dodged and came back with his own. She twisted and turned, grunting with the force of her attacks, her eyes never leaving his.

How long had it been? How long had they been hacking away at each other? Enjolras's muscles ached, his lungs gasping and burning for reprieve, his gaping wounds oozing red with unbridled pain, his body begging for that last vial. Éponine stood before him, her body slouched ever so slightly, blood dripping like a trickling stream from her wounds. She hardly seemed to breathe, but Enjolras could see her limbs shaking, as if this living corpse was struggling to fight against death again. He eyed the wound he had given her at her side right at her ribs and the muscle of her abdomen. She was weak, but he too could feel his strength waning.

He stared into her unwavering eyes, the look of determination that now flickered with wild madness. Was she afraid of dying? Or was it the secret that he threatened to expose? Opposite of the cut on her cheek, a line of blood trickled from her lip, and he knew if he stared any longer, he would not be able to bring himself to kill her. She growled, her teeth and gums tinted lightly red, and he was grateful that she charged at him first. He tightened his hold on his weapons and stepped back to brace himself as fired his pistol. The bullet struck—he knew it, he saw it—a quick hit, the spot of blood, and the way her shoulder flicked back like an itch. But she did not stop her sprint, and Enjolras frowned but did not let his mild surprise stop him. He raised his cleaver and stepped to the right just before she swung her saber. She pivoted, turning her body to complete her swing, and Enjolras wasted no time. He smacked the serrated edge against her saber, her blade locking into his cleaver. He expected the coming of her dagger and dropped his pistol and snatched her wrist to hold back her left-handed stab. With a hard yank, he tore the saber from her hand with the force of his cleaver, and it dropped just to the right of their struggle.

His heart hammered, eyes dilated as he huffed through his nose. This was it; he was going to kill her. Éponine's smile flashed through his mind and his heart almost stopped then. He thought he heard this Éponine whisper "please", a quiet plea for her life and for a moment, he hesitated. The woman before him swiftly moved, raising her free right hand to strike and jab him precisely into his throat. Enjolras grunted and relinquished her left wrist, staggering back in severe pain as he clasped his throat. He wheezed and coughed, his eyes burning, and he looked up to see her coming towards him again. He raised his cleaver, his last defense. Éponine evaded his attack with ease and jabbed her blade into his forearm, tearing through ligaments and muscles and arteries. Enjolras groaned, and his hand lost its grip on the cleaver. She pulled out the blade, his arm gushing blood. Éponine smirked and went to strike his gut. Instinctively, Enjolras dodged to the right, over and passed his cleaver, escaping the reach of her dagger. But in his weakened state, his legs tangled beneath him and he foolishly fell, smacking into earth and grass. Enjolras could feel himself begin to panic; Éponine would waste no time in finishing him. Lifting his head, he saw her saber within his reach and he could hear her footsteps just behind him. He grabbed the sword but before he could turn himself over, she was upon him, her knee on his back.

She sunk her blade into his back, the dagger cutting through flesh, muscle, and bone. Enjolras screamed, tears welled in his eyes and he could feel something thick and wet crawling up his throat. She tore the blade from his back, searing pain raking through him and he huffed, his mind dizzy. He grit his teeth, waiting for another struck, and as soon as he felt her move to plunge the dagger again, he jostled her, twisting beneath her to raise his elbow. He watched as his elbow connected with her jaw, and a hard snap and click resulted from the force of the strike. Her head flung back, and Enjolras moved quickly. While she was unbalanced and with her sword in his hand, he went to his knees and placed his left hand on her right shoulder. He stepped about her as they stood together, his left arm now about both shoulders and the crook of his arm secured her throat. He stood behind her, hiding himself from her dagger as he held her tight, and he buried his face into her ebony tresses, closing his eyes. He raised her sword over them both and she struggled all the more. He did not give her the chance to escape, hesitated no longer, and rammed the sword into her. The sword went through her chest and out her back, the blade long enough to stab into Enjolras as well.

Éponine screamed, a shrill shriek of pain and despair. Enjolras grunted and groaned, biting his bottom lip, tears springing from his closed eyes. The pain was overwhelming, but Éponine's screams were killing him. And then her screams died out, her lungs lost for capacity, and he could hear her soft dying groans. Blood snaked up his throat, and he found it difficult to breath. He could feel the blood then drip from his mouth and he realized then how cold his body had turned. He was dying. He pulled the sword from them both and he watched as she fell forward, collapsing into the garden. Enjolras stood above her, panting, holding his chest. He quickly went for his last blood vial and plunged the needle into his thigh. He gasped in relief, the blood strengthening him, and he watched Éponine, waiting, almost hoping to see her move again. But the dagger had fallen from her hand, and there she lay, limp against the earth, her eyes closed to the glory of the blood moon. Blood seeped and seeped from her, and she no longer stirred.

Enjolras threw away the saber, his chest heaving, a bloodied hole in his chemise and healing wounds. He then fell to his knees, tears mixing with the blood on his face and reached down to touch Éponine's face. She was cold and sickly pale against the crimson on her face. He scooped her up in his arms and took her face to rest it against his body. He shuddered, his body trembling, unable to freely breathe as he surrendered to his grief. Bitterly, he wept, clutching her to him, and wished, more than anything, a death for himself.