In My Time of Dying

Their revolution has a price, and now Death is collecting, Éponine thinks as she watches the boys of the barricade fall one by one. A flash of light and gunpowder smoke fill the air, momentarily blinding her. Her mouth opens to scream as she watches Marius hit the cold cobblestones and lay still, a red stain blooming on his chest.

She runs to his side and if bullets pierce her too, she doesn't feel them. If Marius is gone, she isn't capable of feeling anymore pain. She grabs hold of Marius' waistcoat and there is red everywhere, seeping through his clothes, pooling around him; touching his pale face like she has always longed to do; her tears fall like rain and mix with the blood.

"No, no, no, no." The words are wrenched out of her. Her hands are already soaked with the blood that won't stop pouring out of him. He raises his eyes to her – that blue gaze she craved – and they are filled with fear.

"Marius," she chokes out his name; her tears are hot on her face.

He raises a hand to her face, almost a caress.

It falls back to his side. His eyes are glassy. They stare past her and see nothing.

Éponine feels it; she feels her heart ripping and tearing - because this is worse than Cosette taking him away, so much worse. He shouldn't die like this, not like this. Éponine breaks then, her voice sounds barely human as she wails.

Hands pull at her, dragging her away from him.

"No, I won't leave him. I can't leave him like this!" she cries. Blonde hair and blue eyes are all she sees. Enjolras. He is pulling her away. That almost makes it worse. Their eyes meet and his agonised expression pierces through her haze of grief.

She stops fighting and lets him half-drag her into the Musain; slamming the door behind him. Éponine hears the revolutionaries crying, calling out to God. 'They were boys playing at men, but they won't die like men; they'll die screaming for their mothers and for mercy,' Éponine thinks.

...

It was quiet at the barricade when Enjolras realised that one of the revolutionaries was more of a shadow than a boy. A few times he caught a glimpse of the young boy in baggy rags lurking in a corner, alcove or doorway - always somewhere with an escape or a hiding place.

It took longer for Enjolras to realise that the shadow boy was not actually a boy at all. Enjolras was inspecting the barricade for weaknesses when he noticed a small frame huddled at the foot of it. An arm was outstretched in the direction of Marius who was dozing nearby, slumped in a chair. It was a rather delicate arm, and then his gaze travelled to the wrist. It was not the wrist of a boy. His eyes jumped to the girl's sleeping face, the curve of her cheeks and the sweep of long eyelashes as she moved, restless even when slumbering. Boy's clothes could have only hidden her secret for so long; now her soft step and nervousness took on a whole new meaning.

He surveyed the dark haired girl for a moment more. She was a civilian, one of the people. 'She has every right to be here,' he thought, 'this is her fight as much as mine.'

Enjolras straightened his shoulders and ran a hand through his curls. 'And we need all the fighters we can get,' a darker part of Enjolras murmured. But he was the fearless leader and there was a revolution to fight and Joly was shouting for him, so the gamine situation slipped to the back of his mind as he turned to deal with whatever problem the zealous medical student was bringing to his attention.

...

Éponine followed Marius with her gaze at all times. The same way a moth flew to the light, Éponine gravitated towards Marius. It was no surprise that her gaze also came to rest on the leader, Enjolras, too. 'He is like sunshine,' Éponine thought. 'Bright and fierce and strong; Marius is more like moonlight though; soft, gentle, sweet'.

Éponine stuck to the shadows, always at a distance, on the fringes of the crowd, or the edges of the group. She didn't want to be noticed. She didn't want to be sent away from Marius' side, not here where death would be haunting the barricade come the dawn. Everyone would die, and Éponine knew she wanted to die with Marius.

As Marius drew near, Éponine curved her shoulders inwards and pulled her hat further down her face, sinking into the shadows. It was always like this. Him so close, yet so far away... Something was always between them, an obstacle to climb or an abyss separating them. Cosette's letter was burning a hole in her pocket and she curled her fist around the offending paper. Guilt stirred in her chest at the thought of denying Marius' his happiness.

Éponine surged forward, powered by her heavy conscience, thrust the letter at Marius and skittered off.

"Hey!" he called out after her, but she was already melting in the crowd; it had always been one of her best skills. She ran up the Musain's stairs and slouched in the doorway, her head resting on the wood as she fought back tears.

She had no reason to stay now. Marius' heart belonged to someone else. And yet, she knew she would stay by his side. This battle would be spent with him in her sights.

...

The National Guard are pushed back again. Éponine can't tell if any of the blood on her clothes is her own. 'It doesn't matter,' she thinks. 'We're all going to die here.' She must have said it aloud because a few of the students glare in her direction.

Enjolras grabs her by the arm then and hauls her into another room. He isn't handling her roughly but she stumbles when he lets go anyway - she has no strength left.

"You foolish girl!" he hisses at her. Even the threat of death couldn't rid Enjolras of his beauty it seems, because he is magnificent in the half-light of the single candle. "I told you to leave the barricade! This is no place for you!"

Éponine laughs at him, the sound grates on her raw throat and her voice is even huskier than usual.

"This isn't a place for anyone, it's for shadows and corpses, and I think I belong here more than you, bourgeois boy."

He runs a hand through his hair and red streaks through the golden curls.

"You're throwing your life away!" he counters.

She looks at him and he notices that her eyes are dead, there's none of the spark he admired left in them.

"So are you and your friends."

...

'Enjolras,' he berated himself, 'there is a higher cause here than staring at gamines.' This wasn't the first time he'd caught himself watching the girl, Éponine. Once, she had caught him looking; Enjolras suppressed a shiver at the memory. She had stared back at him, chin raised, defiant for all but a moment. Then he had looked away, uncomfortable with letting anything but Patria and the revolution hold his attention for long. When he had glanced back, she was gone.

After noticing her for the first time, he couldn't stop looking. When he was rallying the students, she would catch his eye; when he was discussing a tactic with Combeferre, Marius and Courfeyrac, there she was, watching him. Or rather, watching Marius. That little detail hadn't escaped Enjolras. He watched her watch Marius. If Prouvaire had witnessed it, he would've spouted some nonsense about unrequited love. Enjolras was glad no one else seemed to notice his wandering gaze.

Éponine was talking to Marius, her eyes were bright and her smile so wide it showed the gaps in her teeth. She seemed to be emanating a glow all of her own and Enjolras felt like he had been slapped. She was not here for the revolution. She was here for Marius. 'You thought she was different and you were a fool,' he told himself. He had thought she was different from the other girls who only care for boys and not their futures beyond their wedding day.

In his head, Grantaire was sneering about the marble man starting to crack.

"Enjolras!" Joly ran over to him, limping. "Enjolras! I cut my leg on the barricade. It's going to get infected and it's going to have to be amputated!" The panic in the boys tone was genuine.

"No, Joly. Go inside and do something useful," Enjolras ordered icily. Joly flinched back. Enjolras' shoulders sagged. "I apologise Joly, I am not feeling myself. Get Combeferre to put some alcohol on your wound," he added, softer this time. He clenched his fists. It was her fault; she had put him in a foul mood. 'The revolution is not a game or a playground for love-sick gamines,' he thought bitterly, watching the pair out of the corner of his eye.

"Enjolras," Feuilly called him from the Musain doorway, and Enjolras strode away from Éponine and Marius.

Later, Enjolras found himself watching her again. He saw that spark in her eyes and he realised he found himself admiring it anyway, despite her raison d'être. 'How could I not,' he thought, 'when she is the embodiment of the people, wretched and lost and yet unwavering and loyal despite it all? In a world of darkness and despair, she has still found a reason to smile even if it was only for a boy who will never look at her twice.'

...

A shudder shook Éponine to the core despite the sun's warm rays. Her shudders were not from cold. It was fear that shook her, the sun was setting and the bullets would come with the dawn. There was not long left now. The shouts from the assembled revolutionaries had been ferocious. They might fight with all they have, but it would never be enough. These were rich boys; they did not know fear like she did, and they did not know pain like the people did.

"When are we going to have something to eat?" one boy nearby asked.

'They haven't even felt hunger's true gnaw yet and they are already complaining. Foolish boys, they want glory and a spectacle. They want songs to be written about them and to go down in history. They want a brighter future, but don't they realise they will be lucky to see the dawn one more time?' Éponine thought as she watched the revolutionary she dubbed 'the doctor' limping around the barricade aimlessly.

Her gaze rested on Marius who was sitting nearby, fiddling with his laces, his collar, and the cuff of his shirt. He wasn't the only restless boy here; they all were, and her heart clenched painfully. Even the high and mighty Enjolras looked highly strung, his jaw had been clenched and brow furrowed for the past twenty minutes.

Marius had discovered her a few hours ago; he had been soaring high on his own happiness but seeing Éponine had brought him crashing back down. He had been angry with her, his eyes disapproving, mouth a hard line. Éponine didn't like him looking like that; she preferred him smiling and laughing, that pleasure at least he had always give her, even if he could never love her as she wished.

"This is no place for you, Éponine, you should go home before it gets dangerous," he had told her.

She had laughed at him then. "This isn't nearly as dangerous as my home as I'm sure you know, Monsieur Marius." She had replied only to keep him talking to her, to keep him close.

He had frowned then. He didn't like to be reminded of the shadowy world that lurked beyond the gaze of his rose-tinted glasses, beyond the world of Cosette and her love.

"Fine," he had lamented. "But you should leave here before the fighting starts for real."

Éponine had readily agreed, but both of them knew she had little intention of leaving.

...

Éponine looks at Enjolras. Truly looks at him. She sees the pretty bourgeois boy who makes all the girls giggle with those perfect golden curls and blue, blue eyes. She sees the fearless leader, standing strong and tall who inspires hope in his cause. She also sees the young boy who is way out of his depth, the panicked look in his eyes and the fear in the boy who is floundering, drowning in this sea of blood.

She pities him, this bourgeois boy who is so lost, who so desperately wants freedom and equality and has instead been caged here in this dead end. 'They never last long though, boys like him; their passion consumes them in the end,' she thinks.

They are waiting for the final blow now. The tension is almost tangible throughout the Musain. She turns to him. They are all going to die, and who knows whether any of them will meet again in the afterlife. And because they are so young; too young for this and too young for the grief and too young to die and for regrets, she kisses him.

More surprisingly, he returns her kiss, all hungry mouth and clumsy hands and inside, the old Éponine is smirking because Enjolras isn't quite so poised and elegant as he drags her closer.

...

Enjolras grabbed Éponine by the back of her coat and pulled her over to the hidden alcove. Her eyes were black and wide in the shadows and anger bubbled up in him because she was far too innocent to see such bloodshed.

"This is no place for a girl," he said, trying to keep his voice even and composed. "And I thought Marius told you to leave before the fighting started!"

Her chin stuck out defiantly at the last comment, but she looked so small standing in front of him, dwarfed in boy's clothes that his anger almost diminished.

"I'm not leaving." There is no argument in her tone, no room for negotiating and Enjolras cursed the stubborn streak he had earlier been praising.

"There's nothing for you here," he said.

She met his eyes, blue and brown clashing and she smiled, but it was not a smile meant for him and his heart panged.

"Everything is here," she replied evenly.

He ran a hand through his hair, something he'd been doing often of late. "The National Guard have given us three hours reprieve before they attack again. You should take Gavroche with you when you go. Your stubbornness will get you killed otherwise," he said, exasperated.

"Your stubbornness will get you killed too," she countered. "And besides, stubbornness runs in the family; he'll no more leave than I will, Monsieur," she added.

"Enjolras," he said, knowing he was fighting a losing battle with her, and with the National Guard.

She raised an eyebrow at him questioningly.

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle, Madame... these are all words that separate our classes. We are all equal as citizens," he said, the words rolling off his tongue easily; they are familiar even though this whole situation was not. He wanted her to say his name for a different reason.

"Enjolras, then," she said, with a quirk to her lips.

...

He was sitting by the flag, shoulders hunched, battling against his drooping eyelids when Éponine joined him, and if he was surprised, he did not show it. He glanced at her briefly and then shuffled over on what had once been a wooden table. They sat in silence, surveying the shadowy street before them and it seemed to merge with the black of the night, dotted with the shapes of men, lying where they fell. Lights flickered at the end of the street where the National Guard lurked.

"The three hours are almost up," Enjolras said, glancing over at her again. "You should leave now." She didn't respond, and he didn't expect her too. He said it more because he should, not because he expected her to follow his advice.

"In the summer, the sun is so hot and there's never enough to eat or drink and there's never enough shade and you feel like you've been set on fire sometimes. In the winter the cold gets into your bones and it doesn't leave because you can never get properly warm and there's even less to eat then. And no one cares," Éponine said, watching Enjolras for a reaction.

"We have so little that we have to cling to what we have. That's why the people didn't rise to join you, because they were too scared of losing what little they have, of leaving their children fatherless, their wives as widows, and even more hungry than before," she continued, the words flowing out of her like an open damn.

"I heard you speak at a rally once, before all this," Éponine said, gesturing to the barricade below them. "And in the summer sun and with a sou in my pocket I almost believed, but then my father took the sou and the sun dipped behind a cloud and the moment passed because the time wasn't right," she said. She couldn't bring herself to look at him yet.

When she finally worked up the courage to glance at the silent Enjolras, he took her breath away. His profile cut a striking line again the light at the end of the street, the high cheekbones and forehead, strong nose and a soft mouth stirred in Éponine the image of one of the angels she had seen the Notre-Dame as a child, fearsome but glorious.

His blue eyes seemed ablaze in the darkness. "I know," was all he said.

"Why did you stay then?" he asked after a while. She glanced at his face again but he was looking out again, anywhere but at her.

"I stayed because I couldn't bear to leave. Not only Marius, but the revolution. If I left now, after seeing you all like this, with still a flicker of hope left, I'd never be able to forgive myself for it. This is bigger than us, than all of us..." She trailed off. Her words felt inadequate, especially in front of Enjolras, who seemed to possess all the right words and the voice of a god.

His lips curved upwards, but only for a moment.

She stayed there for a little longer, watching him, this strange bourgeois boy. "You should go down now, hide in the Musain or another place. They will attack soon," he said, still not looking at her. Éponine stood, and then because he looked so alone against all the darkness, the only light in the darkest night of their lives, she touched his arm and said, "Give them hell, Enjolras."

...

They pull away, breathing hard, Éponine's hand tangled in his hair and Enjolras' hands on her hips. Words won't suffice, not even for Enjolras, so they choose to simply look at each other instead. The moment is so poignant that neither of them wants to break the silence for fear of shattering this, whatever this is.

He drops his hands from her waist and she reaches to catch his hand. Her fingertips brush his, but she lets it fall. They're both looking at each other almost warily and she wonders if he's thinking the same as her, of what might have been.

Éponine sees fair haired children with blue eyes running around her feet, and their laughter ringing through the house, their house. The vision fades and it is just him and her alone.

"Here they come!" Feuilly's voice explodes from below them and they both rush over to the window, half blocked by stones.

The blue uniforms of the National Guard are traipsing forward; their numbers seem endless as they merge with the shadows.

They stand stock still.

"FIRE!"

The order is followed. Éponine reels back at the impact of a bullet; Enjolras pulls her out of the way but far too late. Marius' dried blood is covered with fresh blood, her blood, and Enjolras' eyes are wide and full of fear as he watches a red flower blossom on her clothes.

...

'Marius was a fool,' Enjolras thought. How he couldn't see Éponine's affections was beyond even him, the man of marble. He watched Éponine smile enormously at something Marius said and how it lit up her face. Something stirred in Enjolras. Something ugly that wanted to hurt Marius. Enjolras ground his teeth and looked away from them; from Éponine fluttering about Marius like a hummingbird at a flower.

When he saw Éponine going to leave through the alleyway, he had to move. He strode over to her and called out. She smiled at him too, but it was not meant for him, only the afterglow of Marius' attention that seemed to leave her whole world rosy.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice clipped.

"To deliver a letter for Monsieur Marius," she replied warily; she had flinched back at his tone.

Enjolras nearly snarled. "The National Guard will shoot you. You cannot leave now. You had your chance last night and you choose to stay. You are not Marius' skivvy or errand girl. If he wants to send the letter I'll tell him to send it himself once this is over," Enjolras ground out. He couldn't believe Marius would risk a friend's life for the sake of some summer romance. He didn't want to believe she was that besotted to do it.

He snatched the offending letter and his fingers tightened around Marius' neat script. Éponine was looking at him wide eyed.

"It's too late for you to leave now. None of us can," Enjolras added, turning aside, away from her. It didn't stop the churning in his stomach or the ache of his heart at the thought of Éponine in danger.

Her hand rested on his arm then and it did not, did not make him shudder.

...

Éponine watched Enjolras. She remembered the first time she saw him, saw all of the Amis; boys, all of them, their blood boiling in the June heat.

His stance had been tall, his head held high back then. Now his shoulders sagged as if a great weight rested on them, and Éponine knew one did. It would have amused her once to see that his perfect form and stance are still the same, that totally bourgeois stance that made him seem so graceful and was wound so tightly into his bones and muscles that hunger and exhaustion could not conquer it.

She worried about him too, not that she would ever admit it. Sometimes she just wanted to reach out and tell him everything would be okay. Each time she saw him he seemed skinnier, the bags under his eyes darker, his face gaunter than the last. She knew he wasn't eating, none of them were. There was nothing to eat.

Grantaire stumbled over a loose slab in the pavement and attempted a curse, his words slurring into one another. 'But apparently enough to drink,' she amended.

Éponine found her gaze wandering more often than not to the blonde leader than to the boy she had followed to the barricade.

...

Enjolras cradles Éponine as she bleeds out, his hands pressed against the wound, trying in vain to stop the seemingly endless flow of red. "I won't let you die here, not like this," he says, and Éponine smiles because she knows how he feels and reaches up slowly, barely even feeling the pain and touches his face, smearing blood on his pale cheek and then she tells him "In the next life, I'll find you."

'This is what we could have had; we should have had a life together. Death is coming for me now,' she thinks.

Her blood seems to be running cold now. 'Is this the price I pay for loving?' she wonders. Her eyes close forever as Enjolras holds her tighter.

...

Eight shots ring out above the Café Musain. Crows disperse into the air, screeching at the sound. Silence is all that follows.