Author's note: Thank you to those who favorited, followed or reviewed! As always, any of those three are appreciated, especially reviews. I'd love to hear feedback.

This chapter is mostly Éponine, but there is some Enjolras stuff as well. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: As much fun I have obsessing over fictional characters, the characters in this story belong to Victor Hugo. This is to simply take my mind off of the fact that the book doesn't fulfill my needs as a fangirl.

Liberté for the Soul

by relievedseriousness

For the next several weeks, Éponine stayed at Musichetta's garret, recovering from her injuries as well as helping Musichetta, or at least tried to, prepare for the baby. As street smart as Éponine was, she had little knowledge of how to ready for an infant. Knowing this, Musichetta's aunt Hettie came, hearing of her niece's dilemma. She came with a carpet bag of clothes made for a mother, bottles, and clean linen cloths. Then she set out and bought an old cradle of four francs, placing it in a corner of the room until it was to be used once more in eight months.

Éponine was stunned by the woman's presence, who had taken a peculiar liking to her. She seemed to be always kind and loving, unlike her mother, who adored her and her sister, Azelma, but grew colder and harsher as the years progressed, sometimes presenting them with slaps or blows. With the same, yet crueler treatment from her father piled on, it ultimately added to Éponine's immense infatuation with Marius.

Aunt Hettie, as both Musichetta and Éponine addressed the pleasant woman, was warm yet firm, always bustling around the small dwelling, cleaning and sweeping. She cared for her young niece, seeing to her sickness and nausea in the mornings, while also making sure Éponine's wounds were kept clean and uninfected.

With all the special attending to that Éponine thought was unnecessary, more guilt seeped through her, as she could really do nothing but stand by idly, sometimes helping with laundry or cleaning, but it would always result in Aunt Hettie showing her the "proper way" to do the task, to Éponine's slight humiliation.

When Joly's medical friend, Rique, declared her strong enough to go out, Éponine made plans to go and find work in the city. Though the majority of her life as a gamine was spent, of course, scrounging for scraps and money, she was able to read and write, and with her extensive knowledge of the Parisian streets and fast-acting intelligence, the only thing keeping her from getting hired for a respectable job was her father and her ever present state of filth.

The first obstacle was her attire. For the duration of her stay, Éponine was clothed in a nightgown of Musichetta's. Since she had dressed in boy's clothes for the barricade, the rags that she wore were discarded in her family's hovel in a pile somewhere. Now, Éponine was left with no presentable clothes, or for a woman looking for work, no clothes at all.

"Here, Éponine," said Musichetta, who was rummaging through her wardrobe. "This will fit well, I am hoping." She held up a dress, and helped Éponine into it.

It was a rather simple thing, really, but to the gamine, it was by far, the most extravagant garment that she had worn since her humored childhood. The dress itself was of plain linen in a light lavender color, with tight fitting sleeves. The bodice was at a modest length, the waist was cinched in comfortably, and the skirt fell down to Éponine's ankles. It hugged her curves attractively, while her tresses waved about her face in a calm manner. The girl stared in awe at herself when she saw her reflection in a shard of glass. She was, so it seemed, almost pretty, with only a few small cuts on her face marring the picture.

"Musichetta, are you sure you want me to wear this?" Éponine inquired tentatively. "You surely know how dirty the streets are!"

"Please, Éponine. You have to look presentable for work, right? It fits you perfectly, and you really have no choice. And you cannot expect me to wear it either." The woman gestured toward her growing belly. Éponine smiled, slipped on a shawl and an old but clean pair of boots.

"May we see you for supper!" Aunt Hettie called out of nowhere. "And keep your face clean. I'll have no street urchins at the table tonight!"

Éponine gave a little shock, and turned about and left. Little she knows, she thought.

Enjolras ran a hand through his curls, his hair unkempt from the same action being repeated over and over again. He was in the massive library located in the Gillenormand estate, sitting in an armchair at a comfortable distance from the hearth. The works of Rousseau that sat on the table were long forgotten, as they lost the battle for Enjolras' attention to his plagued thoughts about the barricade.

Each day, the man found himself healing physically, as he was able to walk sufficiently without assistance; his wounds closing adequately. Enjolras' mind, however, suffered; every hour, nearly every minute, was spent thinking about the attacks, the deaths, and the companions that were no longer there. His mind wasn't as toned as it was before; fatigue clouded his instincts and took his appetite by storm. Peace was never a trait in the state of Enjolras' head.

"Hmmh." An aged voice muttered, pulling the revolutionary out of his speculations. "I'm glad to see you reading again, but the idea of such material..."

Enjolras turned around to face Monsieur Gillenormand, who was standing near the armchair. Enjolras sighed, and shifted his focus toward the elderly bourgeois.

"Yes, monsieur?"

"I have come to inform you about the certain matters concerning your record after your, affair."

The young man inwardly chuckled at this; France was his maîtresse, after all.

"What about it?"

"Since you were a disruptor of the public and law, you were sought for by the police after the fall of your fight. Few actually knew your name, so with a given sum and some favors from my connections, I was able to clear any sort of charges."

Enjolras was unsure of what to say. Gratitude and guilt underlain his conscience. "Monsieur, bribery?" he asked.

Monsieur Gillenormand nodded, looking unconcerned about the matter. "Fortunately for you, Inspector Javert is dead, and his replacements were more willing for pocket money than for justice."

Enjolras remembered the news of the policeman's body being found in the Seine River. Everyone knew it was suicide, just not the reason he committed such an act.

"Thank you for your deed, monsieur. It was, however, unnecessary and I am sorry if - "

"Nonsense!" the old man bellowed. "As stubbornly foolish you are about politics, there is no need for such apologies. You are just another grandson to me, whether you enjoy it or not."

Enjolras' mouth twitched, giving evidence of his contained laughter.

The light was fading fast, and Éponine still had yet to find employment. All day it was rejections, from the cafés to the laundresses. The economy was withering, and with little business, employers closed their openings. She rounded the corner, having been snubbed by a baker, and started walking down an alley.

The alley was a shortcut that Éponine knew well. But it was only then that the repulsiveness of the streets hit her with a jolt. Being kept inside for months guarded her from any seedy or revolting scenes; now, the loathsome wholeness was revealed to her once more.

The smell of the alley was putrid, the ground laden with garbage and mud. Éponine walked as fast as she can without attracting any attention. Few people were lying about here, but then again, they could be hiding in the shadows, cloaked by the darkness.

"Lookin' for some money, missy?" A rough man stood by, watching the girl's every move. "Your looks will earn you some pretty sums. Why go lookin' for boring work when you can make money in your sleep!" The pimp laughed, his foul breath reaching Éponine even from several feet away. "Come on, love, give it a go!"

But by this time Éponine had ran out of the alley, daring the dark memories of her past to stay in the scaffoldings of her mind.