An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 26/?
Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Characters: Enjolras (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras' Parents (Les Misérables), Enjolras' Father (Les Misérables), Joly (Les Misérables), Combeferre (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Grantaire (Les Misérables), Bahorel (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle, Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Feuilly (Les Misérables), Enjolras' unknown sister, Javert (Les Misérables)
Additional Tags: Original Character(s), POV Original Female Character, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Canon Era, Pre-Barricade, On The Barricade, Post-Barricade, enjolras has a sister, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Family, Crossdressing
Summary:
This is the story of Adrienne, who is seeking to get to know her half brother. She will eventually find him, but only to lose him again.
This story is thought to be canon compliant addendum, which supplements the stories of a few people who have not made it into Victor Hugo's original story, but nevertheless existed.
----
Marcel needs to tell Adrienne something sad and together they explore what it means to have survived.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (2012)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Characters: Feuilly (Les Misérables), Original Characters, Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre (Les Misérables), Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly (Les Misérables), Enjolras (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle, Bahorel (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Musichetta (Les Misérables), Javert
Additional Tags: Canon Era, everyone dies, Post-Barricade, Post-Seine, forensic terms, Autopsies, this is supposed to be sad, calling les amis by their first names, Not A Fix-It
Series: Part 4 of Autopsy
Summary:
On June 7, 1832, ten bodies arrive at the morgue. However, there is one body that cannot be identified.
Bring up my muse’s past. Mess them up. Devastate them. Hit them with feels. Nothing is off limits.
“No, they…
You think I don’t know that? I haven’t slept a single night when I didn’t see their faces in my dreams… So eager to change the world, so desperate to live…
I saw so many of them die firsthand. Even those who weren’t meant to be there. Gavroche, Éponine…
But they all stood up for what they believed in. They fought for what was right!
And so in the end, it wasn’t for nothing. Because they’ve made a believer out of me. And now I will fight until my last breath to see their cause through!”
The screen crackled into life and the image of a man faded into view. The screen showed a small figure sat on a metal cot, his left wrist shackled to the wall beside him. Even with the camera grade so low, the man’s injuries were obvious. A bloody gash ran down his face, slicing across his right eye and splitting his lip. His right arm was curled protectively around his ribs, and from his posture, it was easy to see that he had at least one broken rib. Blood dripped onto the grey cement from his right leg, which hung quite uselessly over the side of the cot, the left leg was pulled up to his chest, and a large tear down the thigh of his trousers revealed an ugly burn. In all, this man was a wreck. Not even worth his time.
Hard to believe this was Enjolras.
After scrutinising the image for a minute, the General leaned back in his white leather chair and sighed. On the screen was the hope of a nation, no, an empire, and look how beaten he was. He dragged his eyes from the image to the man before him, a good, strong soldier who would obey his every command. Just the man he needed. “Well, obviously he’s a danger to the peace,” he said, “don’t you agree, Javert?”
“Yes, General.”
The General nodded and steeped his fingers. “Indeed. Bring him to me, I want to speak with him before I decide his fate.”
Around him, the room erupted, guards and advisors all vied to be heard above the rest. All except Javert, who stood awaiting his General’s commands as quietly and complacently as a dog. Amused as he was by the outcry, the General held up a hand for silence. “Now gentlemen,” he said, his voice soft as always. “We needn’t fear this rebel – look at him. He is too injured to put up any proper fight, and what better defence is there in this city than the General’s guard. I shall be quite safe.” This seemed to ease the men’s fears. “Javert, take two of your men and bring him here.”
Without a word, Javert nodded and spun on his heel. “You two, come with me,” he said, pointing at the two men closest to the door. These unfortunate guards both glanced at one another before following the huge man at a safe distance, no one enjoyed getting too close to the General’s wolf, he was vicious when apart from his master.
As the door shut behind them, the General smiled to himself and returned his attention to the battered figure, really just a boy, on the screen. Beneath the blood and grime that covered his face, he was quite handsome. He zoomed in to get a better look at him, the whirring of gears within the camera must have alerted the prisoner to its presence, because now his bright, piercing eyes were glaring straight through the screen at him. His lip curled and to his credit, the boy didn’t wince. The general imagined that even in his current state, this charming creature would have women swooning at his feet, and a few men too, no doubt. Blood from the gash on his face trickled down his soft jawline and pooled against the collar of his t-shirt, staining it almost black. A few golden curls of hair had stuck to his forehead with blood and sweat, and as he reached up to brush them from his eyes, the General could see blood trickle down his left hand and a hint of bone poking through the delicate skin of his finger.
With a barely concealed jolt, Enjolras’ attention was snatched from the camera to the door. Silhouetted against the glaring lights of the corridor behind him, stood Javert. The two stared at each other for a long moment, both daring the other to break the silence first. Finally it was Javert who spoke, turning to the two men who cowered behind him. “Go handcuff his hands behind his back,” he ordered.
At first, neither of the men moved, they shared a wary glance before inching closer in almost perfect, halting unison. As they approached, Enjolras curled his right hand into a fist, hidden as it was behind his left leg. He had no idea where they were taking him, probably straight for execution, but he wasn’t going to go without a fight, of that much he was certain. Keeping his eyes firmly on Javert, Enjolras waited until the first guard laid a hand on him to swing. His fist collided with the man’s temple, knocking him unconscious in seconds. Enjolras would never admit it, but he was surprised at the cleanness of that hit, and watched as the man collapsed, too stunned to move. This was his downfall, as in a blur, Javert lunged for him and wrapped a large hand around his throat.
Stars filled Enjolras’ vision as his head was slammed into the concrete wall behind him. “Don’t struggle, boy,” Javert growled as he held him in place. Naturally, Enjolras refused to follow this order, and writhed in the wolf’s grasp. He kicked out with his left leg.
A hand grabbed his thigh and Enjolras cried out as a thumb dug into the searing flesh of his burn. Darkness crept ever closer as his vision began to swim, his lungs were already starved of air as it was, his broken ribs had seen to that. Glaring up into Javert’s dark eyes, Enjolras sagged against the wall. They both knew he couldn’t continue this fight, he must surrender.
The second guard, who all this time had stood aside and watched, now scurried forward and unlocked the cuff around Enjolras’ left wrist. Javert pulled him from the cot and held him tight as the guard secured his wrists behind his back. When he was sure Enjolras was not going to cause him any more trouble, Javert turned to the other guard and kicked him awake. “Get up,” he said. The guard, still groggy, staggered to his feet and took his place beside Enjolras. His fingers dug into his arm and would surely leave bruises, but Enjolras didn’t care, what use was fighting these idiots when he had an altogether bigger fight ahead of him.
Javert turned and headed down the blindingly bright corridor without another word, leaving Enjolras to be frogmarched along behind him by the two guards. With every step he was forced to take, Enjolras’ fear that his legs might actually give out grew. Every step send sparks of pain shooting up his right leg, every brush of fabric against his thigh felt like the flames licking at his skin once more. It took all his effort to preserve what little dignity he had, to keep the tears from falling and the pained cries from being heard.
Finally, Javert stopped outside a large metal door. From his pocket he pulled a small card and swiped it across a lock on the side. Enjolras felt his heart racing in his chest as the door opened with a whoosh, behind this door was his destiny, of that he was certain. What that destiny would be, he had no idea.
Before he had a chance to realise what was happening, Javert had grabbed him by his collar and was dragging him into the room. “Here is the prisoner you called for, General,” he said. Enjolras could feel all the eyes on him as he was flung to the ground. His right knee jarred against the cool marble floor and he bit his lip hard to suppress the scream. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and willed the nausea away. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a voice, but none of the words made any sense as his ears sang. He was dragged to his senses when a hand snapped his head to the side.
“Your general is speaking to you,” Javert growled.
Inhaling as much as his battered ribs would allow, Enjolras raised his eyes. Behind the large desk sat the General, no one had ever known his name, they had only known he was the General. It wasn’t something Enjolras had ever considered before, his name. “He’s no general of mine,” he said, his voice rough from the morning’s protest.
This earned him another slap, which sent him sprawling across the marble. He groaned softly and made a vain attempt to push himself upright, his efforts were stopped by Javert’s boot pressing against his broken fingers. “Watch your tongue, boy,” he hissed.
No one could ever call Enjolras a stupid man, reckless, definitely, but never stupid. And as such, he kept his mouth shut.
“As I was saying before that little interruption,” the General said, his voice calm as ever, “you have caused my men quite a bit of trouble these past few months, yet I have only just learned your name. In fact, before this very day, I had never seen your face.” Enjolras glanced up and saw the General watching him with a sick fascination. “Such a handsome face too, it’s a pity that it’ll scar. Maybe it’ll serve as a reminder of what happens when the people try to upend the peace.”
Enjolras could hold his tongue no longer. “There is no peace here, only your forced obedience. What use is peace if it is paid for with freedom?” he spat.
The General’s eyes flashed with anger and he leaned forward in his chair. “Careful now, boy. You’ll get yourself killed with words like that.”
“So be it. I’d rather be dead than become a docile zombie of the state!”
As quick as it had come, the anger in the General’s dark eyes vanished. Only to be replaced by a sickening mirth. The wicked smile that accompanied it sent a chill trickling down Enjolras’ spine. “I don’t think we need to talk of death so soon,” he said. He turned his attention to one of the men to his left. “Tell me, does our young friend have a state-implant?
The chill down his spine turned to ice as the man began tapping away at his tablet. They couldn’t, God, no please, not that! With new energy, Enjolras began to kick and struggle against the cuffs, anything to stop this. But his feeble attempts were nothing compared to the brute strength of the General’s wolf, and Javert quickly subdued him. With help from a guard, Javert held him tight, barely even moving as Enjolras writhed in his arms.
Finally the General seemed to have had enough, he rose from his chair and stormed across to Enjolras. Up close, Enjolras could see the fury behind the well placed mask. Distracted as he was by the man’s face, Enjolras couldn’t prepare himself for the blow that came. The General’s fist collided with one of his ribs and Enjolras could hear, let alone feel the crack as it snapped. Unable to control it, Enjolras screamed in agony, doubling over as much as the guards at his side would allow. He screamed until he had no breath left in his body to make a sound.
In the silence that followed, the man’s voice was painfully clear. “He has an implant, General, his parents signed the forms for its installation.”
Damn them, Enjolras thought. Damn their stupid belief in the hell they called society. Damn them! With as much venom as he could muster, he gritted his teeth and glared at the General. His heart thundered in his ears and slammed against his chest, and he prayed that no one would see how his hands shook. He would rather take death than the fate that lay before him. Perhaps God would be kind to him now and the stress would stop his heart. Anything but this.
With the calm, disinterested tone Enjolras had come to despise, the General said “Very well, begin the recalibration.” He turned to Enjolras and smiled genially. “You will be a model citizen yet, Enjolras.”
Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, to make one last defiant speech, but all his words were lost as a searing pain ripped through his brain. He screamed and fell to his knees, not even noticing the throb of his broken leg now. White hot pain burned into his mind and filled his head with a shrill whining. Desperate to block out the noise, to block the pain, Enjolras pulled at the cuffs securing his wrists, wrenching them apart until they snapped like plastic and he could bring his hands to cover his ears. He screamed as blood began to trickle from his ears, unable to process the noise that came from within his head. Anything to drown out the pain. One, barely coherent thought flashed through his pain addled mind – Please God let me die!
He carried on screaming, his voice hoarse and cracked. He dug his nails into the tender skin beneath his hair, causing small streams of blood to form and run into the rivers of tears that coursed down his cheeks.
Please God let me die!
As his screamed subsided into silence and he was nearing unconsciousness, he heard the muffled sound of shouts around him. The hands holding him upright released him and he curled into a ball on the marble floor, smashing his forehead into the cool stone.
Then, hands grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him to his knees. Beyond his own screams and the agony in his head, he could hear someone. Faint in the distance, someone was calling his name. His eyes snapped open and he was met by the sight of a frantic man. His wild black hair was falling in his eyes, but he didn’t seem to care. Through the haze of pain, Enjolras could make out only the words on this man’s lips, he focused on the movements these cracked lips made, watched as they formed one word over and over and over.
“Enjolras!”
Grantaire’s voice, clear as a bell in the storm, was the last thing Enjolras heard before the darkness consumed him.
“Good evening everyone...sorry I’m a bit late...again.” Marius sat down on the grass at the top of the hill, smiling. “I was with Cosette, she was visiting her father, you know...you remember Cosette, Of course you remember Cosette! You met her last month, remember? Isn’t she just the best, just the most beautiful--Oh! Sorry. I promised I wouldn’t do that anymore, didn’t I? You already know how wonderful Cosette is, I’ll stop.”
Marius rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, staring blearily at the sunset. “I hope you can see it, I mean, I think I picked a good spot. I figured you’d want to be able to see as much of Paris as possible...so you can watch it change someday.” A tear slipped through his fingers, running down his cheek and into the grass.
“I still think it can,” he said quietly. “I know you wouldn’t give up...wouldn’t want me to give up. And I don’t want to let you down again….”
“Marius?” Cosette sank to the ground beside him, wiping her eyes on her handkerchief. “Are you...are you ready to go?”
“In a minute, my love.” Marius said, flashing her a wavering smile. “I’d like to see the sunset from here.”
“Of course.” She rested her hand on Marius’, squeezing it softly. “They finally finished the headstone, I see.”
He nodded. “They--they did a good job,” he sniffed. “Everyone’s initials are on there..the ones I could find, anyways.”
"We will meet again where all men are free," Cosette murmured quietly, tracing over the letters etched into the marble. "Did you come up with that?"
Marius shook his head. "I thought it appropriate though, considering….” Tears welled up in his eyes, a sob catching in his throat. “I miss them all so m-much,” he stammered, curling in on himself. Cosette caught him, rubbing his back gently.
“I know, sweetheart.” She kissed him softly, resting her head against his. “I know you miss them...just as I miss Papa…”A few tears of her own trickled into Marius’s hair, her hands trembling on his back. “But I think...I think they’d really appreciate what you’ve done.”
She sat him upright, dabbing at his eyes with her handkerchief. “Next week we’ll go down to the market to get some flowers…something bright and cheerful. I’m sure your friends will love that.”
“Yeah,” Marius hiccupped. “Yeah, they’d like that.” He glanced dazedly at the darkening city, the sun almost disappeared behind the horizon. He stood, leaning heavily on Cosette’s arm as he mopped his eyes with his sleeve. She helped him down the hill, sighing as he took one last look at the grave, mumbling to himself.
“We shouldn’t stay here after dark,” he murmured, clutching her hand. “We are already haunted enough.”
Summary: Some of the accounts of the final battle at the barricade were not entirely correct. For, as luck would have it, there were two other survivors who went down in Marius's memory as being dead. One of them was only a subject of his morbid dream, the other was saved by a drunk's insane idea.
Pairing: unrequited Eponine/Marius and (kinda?) e/R, slight Marius/Cosette, suggested Enjonine.
A/N: So guys this was my first Les Mis fic and even though I've only been an active member in the fandom since around November/December, I'm getting nostalgic. So yeah.
- Remembering What's Lost-
The barricade never lost hope, not even when Enjolras spoke of the nonexsistant possibility of survival that came with their fighting. Despite their hope that radiated in every crevice in the walls, every piece of wood on the barricade, and every cobblestone on the street, most of the men were unable to sleep the last night of their lives.
A youth of whom none of Les Amis d’ABC seemed to know went to the smaller barricade to try to get some sleep. He squirmed into a small space between the barricade and the wall, for it was all-too often that he’d been forced to slumber in more uncomfortable places. He looked up at the stars, mostly bright but for spots in the sky that were covered in factory smoke. Here, through the smell of blood and death, everything seemed cleaner than the boy was accustomed to. Though the heat was strong in this time of the summer, such an issue was easily resolved by unbuttoning a few of the top buttons on his smock. Now comfortable, the boy allowed a little smile to grace his pretty but dirty face. He could get used to this little niche on this battleground. It was a good place to die.
It was with that thought that the peculiar boy allowed himself to be pulled into the trance of sleep, the dreams of which consisted of times from long ago, times of warm beds and gifts on Christmas.
However, Marius thought of the smaller barricade and went to inspect it. It was unguarded except by the lamp flickering on the pavestones. The Mondetour alleyway, and the small streets running into it, the Petite-Truanderie and the Rue de Cygne, were entirely quiet.
As he was leaving, having concluded his inspection, he heard his own name faintly spoken in the darkness.
"Monsieur Marius!"
He started, recognizing the husky voice that two hours previously had called to him through the gate in the Rue Plumet. But now it was scarcely more than a whisper.
He looked about him, but, seeing no one, thought that he had imagined it, that it was no more than an hallucination to be added to the many extraordinary vicissitudes of that day. He started to move away from the barricade and the voice repeated:
"Monsieur Marius!"
This time he knew that he had heard it, but although he peered hard into the darkness, he could see nothing.
"I’m at your feet," the voice said.
Looking down, Marius saw a dark shape crawling over the cobbles towards him. The gleam of the lamp was enough to enable him to make out a smock, a pair of torn corduroy trousers, two bare feet, and a trail of something wet upon the ground. A pale face was turned towards him and the voice asked:
"Don’t you recognize me?"
"No."
"Éponine," The voice said, and through the darkness Marius could see a movement much like someone removing a cap, and shadows in the dark suggested the cascading of hair as it tumbled to cover the shoulders of the smock.
Marius bent hastily down and saw that it was indeed an unhappy girl clad in a man’s clothes.
"How do you come to be here? What are you-" Marius began, and she sadly realized that he was to scold her and force her to leave. However, in the middle of his words, his foot caught on a piece of debris and he gave a little yelp before crashing to the ground. Startled, Éponine lept to her feet.
"Monsieur Marius? Marius!" She cried, poking his motionless body with her toe. “What on earth have I done?"
Marius moaned a little, allowing the smallest weight to be lifted off Éponine’s damned heart. However, her brows still stitched with worry and her lips turned down in an unsatisfactory manner. Now that she knew he was alright, she found herself to be quite cross with him. How dare he fall! They could have a last conversation together, which in Éponine’s mind would play out quite nicely, perhaps with her earning a kiss from him. She knelt down to his side to scold him, but when she did she saw a terrible dark liquid that she knew far too well.
"Help!" She screamed, her voice reaching a girly pitch that it hadn’t since she was quite small. “Somebody help! Monsieur Marius is hurt!"
Calling out the voice of the barricade’s savior proved more effective than she perhaps had wanted it to be. Footsteps pounded the pavement and lanterns came into view, blinding her with their sudden light. She flinched and covered her face protectively with a scratched arm.
A man came forward with a bandage, one of the students with whom Marius was friends, and he dropped to Marius’s side. Relieved, Éponine made her way to push through the crowd, but someone stopped her with a gentle yet firm hand.
"Who are you?" He asked, and she recognized the voice of the leader. “Having the urchin here is one thing, but a woman is another."
She pulled back, surprised and flattered for a moment. She clung to that one second that someone thought that she was too pretty to be a boy; it may have been the only compliment she’d received since Cosette was taken away and she lost her father’s love. Then she remembered how she’d unbuttoned the top buttons of the smock in the heat, promiscuously displaying what little cleavage she had. And her hair tumbled out of the cap, framing her face and bringing out what innocence remained through the dirt. She drew up her chin, much like she had when she confronted the Patron-Minette at the house on Rue Plumet.
"And why," She began, her voice back to its regular husky tone, “is that? I will let you know, Monsieur, that I’ve faced a great many brushes with death, far more than you’ll receive before death claims you here! Perhaps I’m tired of such a life, did you think of that? Or maybe, I just wanted to see something grand, like the people fighting for freedom. Plus, had my hair been beneath my cap and my smock properly done up, you would not have recognized me as a woman! Perhaps I should take this as an insult, Monsieur, and for insulting me so cruelly you should allow me the right to stay!" Éponine pouted sweetly at the handsome leader, whose stony face did not crack at this.
A man stepped forward with a lantern to look at her closely. She vaguely recognized this student as the one with whom Marius was residing. The one with whom she’d come to the barricades. He laughed a kind laugh, and her heart ached knowing that this handsome young man would soon meet his doom with the rest of them. The sooner the better. “Oh, alas Mademoiselle, you are quite mistaken. When I saw you waiting for Marius I thought you looked awful girly to be a workman, but it was when you spoke with that voice of yours I thought that you must be a man! I hope you take no offense, for I understand that such a voice must come from an unhappy childhood filled with liquor and cigarette smoke."
"You are not entirely wrong, Monsieur." Éponine said, a little smile gracing her chapped lips.
"But the point remains. Courferyac, if I may," The leader intervened, setting his hand atop the shoulder of the kind young man, who stepped back immediately. “Citizen, already a harmless bystander has met his doom! It is bad enough that Gavroche insists upon staying-"
As he said the name of the urchin, Enjolras noted that he lost the girl’s attention. Her eyes widened and her expression seemed one of distress. Enjolras, who was used to being able to finish his speeches without losing the audience, looked at her with annoyance.
"What? What is it?"
"Gavroche is here?" She asked, dumbly, causing some of the simpler men in the group to laugh. Courferyac silenced them with a dangerous glare, and turned towards the girl.
"Why does this bother you so?" He asked, and Éponine looked down, embarrassed. Sure, she and Azelma had lived their lives without Gavroche, but when he stopped by it filled her heart with joy, knowing that at least one of them was spared the criminal life. And she cared for him in the distant way that bickering siblings do. She knew that he must be bitter towards her for managing to cling onto what little love their mother had left to give, and she didn’t blame him. There was a certain amount of bitterness on her part to, for he was able to escape. If she tried to, it would be only a matter of time before she was found again.
"My brother," She mused aloud, and Enjolras cracked the smallest smile at this. As did Courferyac, and the two comerades exchanged a glance.
"By God, I can see the resemblance!" Courferyac whooped, and some of the more relaxed (and more drunk) men laughed.
"Well, they share their stubbornness and bravery as well as their noses." Enjolras chuckled, but he placed a careful hand on her shoulder, and the heat of his palm reached through the thin smock. “Alas, another innocent should not die. It is awful enough that young Gavroche will most likely die here."
"I am anything but innocent!" She exclaimed, ducking out from under his hand. “Do you know what kinds of things I’ve been made to do for my father? I know a world that none of you do! It is awful work, you know, real terrible and dirty. My father would do it himself but he’s much like a rat, he enjoys retreating into a dirty hole in the wall and waiting out the storm." Éponine drew some laughs from the crowd at this, but she continued talking in her distracted, rambling way to the leader. “The only good part about it is that I get to walk alone most of the time. At first it was scary, but as I grew accustomed to it, I became more welcome of the night. Do you know what kind of people haunt the streets at night, Messieurs? Bad ones, that’s right. But the Parisian night is so beautiful! If it weren’t for those damn factories, the stars would shine like diamonds on a bride’s ring!"
A workman interrupted her, spewing out names at her, following his outburst with a simple statement, “Those damn factories are the only reason many of us are alive!"
There were some grumblings in agreement, but most of the men found themselves transfixed in the girl’s heartrending monologue that never seemed to end.
"Pay close attention to the night right now! It may be the last time any of us get to see its beauty! I knew that coming in, but I think that many of you have yet to realize this. Surely you have something, someone to live for? You speak of studies and jobs and sweethearts and yet you are here, with wretched souls like me, who chose to end their pathetic lives for the greater good! I think you would do well, Monsieur, to let me stay," Éponine said, directly to Enjolras, who appeared to be relatively unmoved. “I am no stranger to a gun, I can fire as well as any of you petty schoolboys!"
The term ‘petty schoolboys’ lost what audience remained, and the crowd dispersed, frustrated and annoyed with the girl who should know her place. Enjolras remained, though, and he shook his golden head at her, who kept her chin up and her glazed eyes at him. A young voice pierced the night, and she began to tremble. The sudden realization of who would die that night reached her. Marius, who she brought here of her own selfish reasons, these kind, smart boys who would make wonderful husbands, and her brother.
"Enjolras, what’s going on? I heard a ruckus. ‘Ponine, what are you doing here? I thought you were in jail," Gavroche said simply, no love in the words that he spoke so monotone. Éponine felt herself drawn to him, and she felt for him in the dark until her bony hands lay across his shoulders. She couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine it, and that was comfort enough.
"They released me and Azelma early. Maman is still in jail-"
"And father has escaped." Gavroche finished, with a grim undertone to his young voice. “I am more aware than you think, ‘Ponine. I helped him escape."
For once, she was at a lost of words. As far as she could tell, Gavroche felt no love for any of them, and their father seemed to show particular disinterest towards him. Finally, her active tongue discovered the searched-for words and she asked him, “Why would you do such a thing? You know what kind of man our father is!"
Gavroche remained silent on the subject, and they stayed in this soft darkness for several moments before he finally said, “I think you should leave."
"What? Why? Gavroche, you silly boy, why are you ordering me about? I can handle as much as you can! Even more! You are so small even now, and how much you’ve grown!"
He snorted, his good humor returning to his voice. “I am nearly as big as you are, ‘Ponine!"
"You are, aren’t you? Well, no matter. I refuse to leave. Unless…" She trailed off, as if she was scared to say what she wanted to. Enjolras, who still stood beside the siblings, leaned in to hear her next words.
"Unless what?" the boy asked, and Éponine sighed a raspy sigh, one that emerged from the depths of her soul. She glanced back at where Marius was being tended to by candlelight, and she felt some comfort in knowing that he might not be well enough to fight.
"If you come with me and leave the barricade, then I will go and bother these men no longer." She said, and Gavroche’s protests rose immediately but were silenced by a few words from Enjolras.
"Maybe it is for the best, boy." He said, and Éponine’s heart went out to this young man that she barely knew.
"I won’t leave this spot!" Gavroche swore, and it tore at her shredded heart. “I won’t leave you, Enjolras, and I won’t leave France!"
"Well, if you won’t, then I won’t either!" She cried, horribly upset at her brother’s stubbornness. Why couldn’t the silly boy realize that he was playing with the bigger boys, and that the game was against death?
“‘Ponine," Gavroche said, quietly and with a softness with which he had never used when speaking to her. “Please."
She closed her eyes, and she was back at the inn as a small child. She was in a good mood that day, and decided to spare Cosette of her bullying. She led the lark to the children’s room and showed her Gavroche, smiling proudly. “This is my brother!" The rejected baby boy lay about soiled sheets, but looked at his sister and the servant with curious eyes.
"Is it alright for him to lay like this?" the lark had asked in her broken voice. Éponine assured her that it must be, for her Maman and Papa did nothing to change it. After a few seconds of the girls watching the baby, Cosette spoke hesitantly to the girl who was usually so cruel to her. “I wonder what its like to have a brother."
"You may have one, somewhere." Éponine had said, reminding Cosette of her missing mother, and the child had smiled slightly, as if comforted by the thought.
Éponine opened her eyes to the same darkness she’d just seen. She wanted nothing more than to stay by the side of the boys she loved, but when Gavroche used that voice he broke her in a way that he could never know. He made her feel as if she was the younger child and he was the older, gently crooning to her.
"Alright. But, if you change your mind, can we meet up somewhere?" She said, her voice drifting off like smoke during a strong wind. Gavroche smiled. It felt nice to be looked after for once in his life, but he knew as well as she did that he would not survive.
"The elephant. If I make it I will be at there tomorrow."
"You promise?" She asked, and he made a guffaw as if he was annoyed with her smothering him, while in reality he was reveling in it.
"Of course I promise ‘Ponine!"
The promise was enough to treat her wounded soul as she carefully left the barricade, wandering though the streets until she found her way to the river, where she sat to wait till morning for her brother that would never come.
And the unconcious Marius? He dreamt of her death, a morbid subject to dream of, but something that gave him the feeling that he just lost two women who loved him, Cosette and Éponine, although his feelings concerned with the latter were mostly those of pity. Somehow, through his injury, he picked up on the conversation discussing the relations of Gavroche and Éponine, and this spurned him to have Gavroche deliver the letter to his darling Cosette. As for the message that Éponine had selfishly hid from him? She placed it on his chest as she left, not wanting him to be angry with her when they reunited in death.
...
As Éponine was standing her ground against Enjolras, Grantaire momentarily woke from his drunken stupor. The cafe was remotely empty, and he was alone but for sheets of scrap metal that refused to stay on the barricade and the jackets that some of the men discarded in the room. He stumbled to his feet, reaching for a bottle but finding it empty.
Then a thought occurred to Grantaire. He wanted to prove to Enjolras that he did care (somewhat) for the revolution. Upon a dizzy look around the room, an idea lit up his alcohol-infused brain. He was taught to sew as a young boy by his sister, who was awful tired of having to repair his clothes when he constantly tore them, as little boys tend to do. So, his one talent in mind, Grantaire grabbed a lone sewing kit that belonged to Joly and set to work.
When he was done, he felt quite satisfied with his work. He’d clumsily put bits of metal in the stuffing of the jackets, and messily sewn up the tears. He retreated back to his corner, cradling the empty bottle, and his eyes drooped with exhaustion. Enjolras came into the room, rubbing his temples from the spat with the foolish girl. Upon entering the room, he sat for a moment, just to gather his bearings. After a few minutes of vulnerability, he left the room, remembering to grab his scarlet jacket. He thought its weight odd, but threw it on nevertheless.
And that little toss of his jacket over his sweaty arms was enough to save his life.
He repeated, “Long live the Republic!" and walking steadily across the room took his stand beside Enjolras, confronting the muskets.
"Might as well kill two birds with one stone," he said; and then, turning to Enjolras, he added gently: “If you don’t mind."
Enjolras clasped his hand and smiled. They bumped shoulders, and Grantaire smiled right back, knowing the secret that protected Enjolras, whose eyes lit up with confusion upon this knowing smile from the drunk.
Neither smile had ended when they volley rang out. Enjolras, his jacket pierced by eight shots, stayed leaning against the wall as through the bullets had nailed him there; only his head hung down. In reality, the bullets hit the metal, but the fabric clung to the shots, unlike the ricocheting of the bullets off the royal children whose death would not come for many years. He just stumbled back from the momentum of the shots, and hung his head to hide his wild eyes.
He heard the shots ring out, and the rough cries of his comrades as they perished at the hands of the soldiers. While relief should have filled the young man, instead he was filled with shame for surviving. He was the captain, supposed to go down with his ship. Alas, here he stood, living, breathing, hating. Even the drunk who knew no cause to stand for had died, right there at his feet.
When the building was silent, the burden of death pressed upon the leader’s eardrums. For the first time, his marble cracked and Enjolras fell to the ground, sobbing the way he never had before.
...
It was many months later, and nighttime. The streets were alight and festive with Mardi Gras celebrations, and the throngs of spectators joined together as urchin and blueblood, night and day. The people of Paris were united in the night more successfully than any revolution would have done. In the crowd, a lone face in a sea of masks stood staring at the wedding party that passed through. Her heart had been saved by its broken state, for a broken heart knows no hatred until someone attempts to stitch it back up the wrong way. Éponine’s pain had never stopped. Through the window of a carriage in the party she saw a handsome face that she missed dearly. She knew not if it was hallucination or real, but she enjoyed seeing that gorgeous smile that graced the features of her Monsieur Marius.
In the next carriage, she spotted another familiar face. Although her smile dimmed, it did not disappear entirely. Cosette. It was at that moment she realized that this was far too real. Did he think her dead? Did he mourn her at all? Did he even remember her name? Éponine sighed, somehow knowing that he didn’t. And in the fresh heartbreak that came from this, her soul was saved again, for with each rough tear her innocence grew and her criminal thoughts lessened.
She lowered her teary eyes to the ground, and once she was sure that she would not cry, she looked back up and met someone’s eyes from across the street. Although he wore a thin, black mask, his wild head of golden curls gave him away, as well as his red jacket that appeared lumpy and ill-fitting. He saw her as well, and cracked a smile. There was a break in the traffic, and the young man crossed the street, walking right towards her.
Once he reached her side, they stood in silence. However, a connection was made by their entwined fingers as they watched their friend live his happy life without knowing that they survived as well.
Éponine murmured in a voice that had healed from breathing cleaner air, “I’m afraid he doesn’t remember."
Enjolras replied with his lips very close to her ear, “Mademoiselle, the real fear is that he will never forget."
Because post-barricade Nicolas is hard and cruel and mean. All his joy has been lost, and while he may have been sad at first, with all his friends dead, not to mention Javert, the sadness would barely last more than a week before turning into bitter hatred. He had known happiness, friendship, and faith, but now all of that is gone, ripped away from him by the system that, while he didn't have complete or blind faith in it, he still at least believed in. He had hoped, and in that he had erred, and he will not make that mistake again. He would become harsh, quicker to strike than to talk with someone who has wrong, especially if he is still an officer. People who used to be kind to him would now fear him for what he might do. He has no smiles to offer, and any joyful childish light in his eyes has faded into cold ice.
There would be only two he would, or could, smile for. Marius and Cosette. They are the constants that have not changed, and while everything else may have been ruined, Nicolas is happy to see his friend have a happy ending, to be married with a good sweet girl that Marius loves and that she loves Marius as well. Nicolas would smile for them and only them, and hope that they never see him when he is not smiling at them.
Because he knows. He's aware of what he's become, it would be hard for him not to. And he might dislike his new self, but he isn't going to stop, or even try to, becoming what he is becoming, and he wouldn't try to change back. He was never one for fake or forced smiles, he will not bring himself to give them either.
