III. The Father

"No, Eponine…no…"

Rain pours over the cobblestone streets, the water mixing with the dark crimson blood. Marius sits there, weeping into the fallen gamine's shoulder, while Enjolras looks on.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She was not supposed to be here. She was not supposed to die.

Yet she had, taking a bullet intended for Marius.

It had happened so fast. They had discovered the spy when they heard the National Guard approaching. The command of "Fire!" had everyone shooting for their lives. Marius had grabbed a barrel of gunpowder and a fire torch just as someone had shoved Enjolras out of the way at the cry of "Snipers!" Eponine must have noticed a gun Marius had not seen, and took hold of the gun's barrel and pointed it away from him in time to save him, but not herself.

"Poor girl," Feuilly says, removing his hat and holding it against his chest. "Too young for this."

But weren't they all?

Enjolras kneels down in front of Marius, Combeferre behind him, trying to keep his emotions in check. His eyes sting and his chest aches as if someone had struck him.

"I am going to take her into the café," Enjolras murmurs. "I will see to it she receives a proper burial when all of this is over."

Marius nods, and it's clear in his eyes he's reluctant to let the gamine go, but nonetheless he shifts to allow Enjolras to pick her up and carry her, while Combeferre sits down beside Marius to comfort him.

"You were not supposed to be here, you foolish girl," he whispers into her blood-matted hair. "You did not deserve to die."

He walks past the spy and into the back room, sheltered from any further harm dealt by cannons and bullets. He sets her down on the floor, and kneels beside her.

"I am going back to fight. I will keep my promise, though. I will make sure you do not end up in an unmarked grave. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten." He leans and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well, dear Eponine."

He folds her hands over her chest, then rises to his feet to leave the room, looking back once before closing the door behind him.

Grantaire leans against the wall, holding a spot on his head from hitting the wall when he had been thrown by the spy.

"Bastard," he hisses, his gaze on the floor.

"So you have not abandoned us?" Enjolras asks, stopping to speak to him. "I thought you did not believe in this fight."

"I will follow where you ask," Grantaire replies, looking up. "You're covered in gunpowder."

"You missed the first attack," Enjolras says, looking towards the back room door.

"Something the matter?" Grantaire glances between him and the door. "What happened?"

Enjolras takes a deep breath. "We lost Eponine. Took a bullet to save Marius' life."

"She's…she's gone?" Grantaire shakes his head. "She…"

"There was nothing Combeferre and Joly could do for her."

Grantaire slides down the wall until he is sitting on the floor. "She knew this all along."

"Pardon?"

"She knew she wouldn't see past tomorrow." Grantaire reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out an old piece of parchment, holding it out for Enjolras. "Told me to give this to you were something to happen to her."

Enjolras takes the folded parchment from his hand, opens it, then scans the contents.

"I told her to tell you sooner, would've made it easier on herself if she had," Grantaire says.

"This cannot be…" Enjolras shakes his head. "How…she…why?"

"Didn't want to trouble you, I suppose."

"You knew? You could have said something."

"Wasn't my secret to tell."

Enjolras stares at the words on the page, and stumbles back into the wall. "Be serious—this is not some scheme you two plotted against me. Now is not the time for it."

"She and I might have our jokes, but this is not one of them. You have my word," Grantaire says, wiping blood from his brow. "It would be too cruel to impose fatherhood on you with no sincerity."

Enjolras sits down. "I did think of it peculiar when she went off for a time. Never did it occur to me this was why."

A pause.

Grantaire sighs. "She meant well, not telling you. Feared if you knew, her father would soon after. She didn't want the child to be used in a bargain against you."

The candles in the room still burn, but the room only gets darker and colder.

"I will never see him," Enjolras says. "The battle ahead will not allow it."

"We'll be fine without you, but Lucien will not be." Grantaire places a hand on his shoulder. "He's lost his mother today; don't make him an orphan."

"I will not abandon anyone here." Enjolras gets to his feet, and folds the parchment into his coat pocket. "I have walked too long on this path to turn back now."

"Enjolras—"

"Do not try to change my mind." Enjolras starts for the entrance.

Grantaire scoffs. "I knew it. You are too absorbed in your desire for change that you would ignore your personal matters."

Enjolras stops, and turns to glare at Grantaire. Then, he continues his way out.

A distraction. This is all it will be to him.

Dawn arrives, and when Feuilly returns from his reconnaissance, the news is not good.

"We're the only ones left."

The next hour is a bloodbath.

Cannons blast the barricade, sending splinters everywhere. Bullets fly by Enjolras' head, sometimes striking those behind them. He urges the surviving to find shelter. Men continue to collapse. There's shouting and cries of terror. His face is covered in blood that may or may not be his own, as well as gunpowder and sweat.

The remaining men run upstairs and break apart the wooden stairs. Feuilly throws glass bottles of nitric acid and throws them down at the National Guardsmen until he is struck down. Bullets rise from the floor and strike those above them, and Enjolras is alone.

He finds himself at the wrong end of at least fifteen rifles, backed against the wall by the front window.

"I'm sorry, Eponine," he whispers. "I failed you, Lucien."

He hears the determining click. He takes a deep breath, focusing on their commander.

Grantaire emerges from downstairs, and approaches him. He stands beside him, and grasps his hand.

"You foolish man," he says.

The guns ring out, and Grantaire shoves him back, causing his head to hit the wall behind him.

Water. Dripping water.

Enjolras opens his eyes to bright sunlight pouring over a hole-covered blanket. A young woman squeezes water from a rag and into a bucket, and dabs his forehead with it.

"There you are," she whispers. "Good thing, too. Mother wouldn't want to explain why we had the corpse of someone like you."

He squints, turning his head towards her. Behind her, he notices a blanket covering something on the floor. From underneath, dark hair.

"My sister," says the woman, glancing at the floor. "Found her by herself in the backroom of where I found you. You must've known her."

"Eponine?" he croaks, and the woman offers him some brandy, not having much to give in terms of anything to drink. He sits up from the floor, hisses from pain in his shoulder.

"Careful! You'll reopen it!" she warns, leaning to adjust what at one time were nice pillows. "Don't want any more blood on the floor as there is. Doctor had a nasty time getting the bullet out. Lucky there's no infection as of yet."

"Eponine…" he murmurs, then his eyes go wide. "The note. Lucien. My coat! Mademoiselle, where is my coat?"

"On the other side of you. Mother wanted to burn it, but I stopped her. I suppose it's a good thing I did."

He moves to get up. "I have to find him."

She grabs his arm. "You will be doing no such thing, not anytime soon. You'll have plenty of time to find that Lucien of yo—oh."

Enjolras lays back down. "Forgive me. I only found out after she…"

Both of them turn their heads to where Eponine's body lay. The woman turns back towards him, her eyes red.

"I want to pay for her burial," he says. "After all she has done, it is the least I could do."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"You shouldn't."

"I do not want her in an unmarked grave."

"It is very kind of you, but I doubt my parents would allow that."

"Mademoiselle Jondrette." He reaches for her hand. "Please."

She hesitates to pull her hand away. "It's up to them, not me. My father will try to rid you of every sous, just a warning."

He nods. "Thank you."

Three days later, there's upturned earth beneath his feet and a gray sky overhead. Azelma, dressed in black, acts as his support, him leaning against her as they stare at a headstone.

Eponine Thenardier

February 13, 1812 – June 5, 1832

"She would wound me for this if she knew," he says with a small smile. "She never liked charity."

Azelma nods. "No, she didn't, but I'm sure she'd appreciate the gesture."

He limps on his cane towards the stone, and removes a white rose from his coat.

"Thank you," he says, kneeling down and placing the flower in front of the stone. "For everything."

He runs his fingers over the letters etched in stone, then rises to his feet. He takes a few steps back, his eyes staring at the grave. The wind blows past him, and he feels a drop of rain on his face.

"Shall we go now?" Azelma asks, offering him her arm.

He turns to her, taking in a deep breath. "Yes."

He takes her arm and the pair of them leave, but he glances at the grave once more before it disappears from view.

The carriage ride outside the city is a long one. With the wound in his shoulder still healing as well as a gash on his leg from a bayonet, the bumpy roads do not ease the pain.

"Would you like some laudanum?" Azelma asks, already searching through her small travel bag.

Enjolras shakes his head, trying to remain focused on the novel in his lap instead of wincing from the pain. "I'll manage; I would rather not be in a daze when we arrive."

"Your choice." She shrugs, and she turns back to her gaze out the window.

A few moments of silence pass.

Azelma turns her gaze away from the window, her fingers fiddling with her skirt. "May I be forward with you, Monsieur Enjolras?"

Enjolras' eyes glance towards her, his head still bowed. "Depending on the subject, you may have earned the right."

The younger Jondrette girl nods. "My sister, did you love her?"

He lifts his head and closes the book. He leans back in his seat.

Did he love her? Such a forward question indeed. A question he didn't have an immediate answer for.

She was a dear friend, a companion who deserved better than what Life had given her, deserved more than a life of rags and lonely streets. Anything out of charity refused, and trust, she earned of everyone in the upstairs of the old café.

Her disappearance had affected them all, and her return, welcomed.

Would it have been selfish to say he was more grateful than anyone of her return? Not only to know her thoughts, but to have her presence and spirit? To know of her being undamaged further by the streets on which she lived? And by him?

…Except he had done damage, damage he has only known for a few days now. How scared she must have been. And to not tell him, she must have feared the worst. With her gone now, a part of her remains still, no longer hidden from him, and how is he to handle that beyond today?

That one night, he wonders still of all that was said, despite the alcohol in their blood. He recalls flashes; them left alone in the café and lips pressed against one another and not knowing who started it, walking along the cobblestone streets, a warm embrace on the stairs of his apartment building, her closing and locking his unit door with a sly smirk, the way her hair fanned out on his bed and how her fingers trailed along his skin and kept him close…

Did he feel any different before that night? Did he feel the same then as he did now?

"Monsieur Enjolras?" Azelma calls him out of his thoughts.

"My apologies," he says. "I...She was a dear friend, one I will miss until my last breath. To say I loved her, I have no way of denying any feelings towards her."

"Is that a yes?"

"An indefinite one."

It is almost evening by the time the carriage stops in front a stone cottage, candles burning in its windows. Azelma hops out of the carriage first, then turns to assist Enjolras, who is determined to not put a lot of weight on his left leg.

"The wound didn't reopen, did it?" Azelma asks as he makes his down.

"It feels as if it might have," he replies, hissing when both of his feet touch the ground. "It was jostled around enough."

"I'll take a look when we get inside," she replies, picking up what little luggage they had. "It's about time we changed the dressing anyway."

The carriage drives off, and he looks down the path leading up to the door for a few moments. This was it.

"Does your aunt know who I am?" he asks.

Azelma takes a few steps forward and pauses. "I believe she does. Eponine trusted her more than Mother. She might not know your face, but I'm certain she knows your name."

"Will she hate me?"

"I can't answer that. I don't know how much Eponine told her."

Enjolras breathes in, then limps forward. No way to turn back.

Azelma knocks on the door. There's rustling to be heard from the inside, followed by some muttering. When the door opens, a middle-aged woman appears, dressed in clothes that had seen better days and were covered in patches. She smiles.

"Azelma, my dear, how are you?" The woman steps forward and hugs her.

"Well, Aunt Claire, thank you! And you?"

"Managing," she replies, "Lucien's quite the handful these days, but aren't all children?"

"I suppose so," Azelma replies with a smile. She takes a step back. "Aunt Claire, might I introduce you to Monsieur—"

"Lucien Enjolras, I know," the older woman mutters. Enjolras' brows furrow. "It's the eyes, monsieur. There's few like them."

"I see," Enjolras says.

Claire looks him up and down, observing the cane and his arm in a sling. "What fight were you in?"

"The barricades following Lamarque's funeral," he replies, peering behind her.

"Revolutionary." She huffs, and turns to Azelma. "It appears your mother's taste in men was hereditary, the battle-seeking kind. At least your sister picked an honorary sort, speaking of which, where is she? It's been a few months since she was here."

Azelma glances at Enjolras, whose gaze turns to the ground.

"I believe it would be best to discuss it inside," Enjolras suggests. "If that is of no conflict?"

Claire narrows her eyes at him for a moment, then gestures for them to come inside. She reaches for Azelma's bags, and sets them down inside next to the door.

"Azelma, go ahead and take a seat," Claire says, still watching Enjolras. "I'll grab a chair for you, monsieur."

"If you don't mind, Aunt Claire, I need to check his wounds, make sure they didn't reopen on the ride here," says Azelma.

Claire hesitates. "The monsieur can't afford his own caretaker?"

"One is not necessary," Enjolras replies, bracing himself against the doorframe.

"As true as that is, the doctor said you should still be in bed for another week or more," Azelma says, taking his arm to guide him to the sofa. She turns to Claire. "He's insisted he's wasted too much time."

"Where's Lucien?" Enjolras asks.

"Resting, and as my understanding is, so should you," Claire snaps, then looks at Azelma. "You know what to do?"

Azelma nods. "The doctor showed me how. Been doing it for a few days now. What I need is in one of the bags."

"I'll leave that to you then," says Claire. "I'll be in the kitchen finishing dinner if you need me, or if the monsieur tries anything."

"Aunt Claire!" Azelma's eyes go wide, her cheeks turning red.

"I have a right to be wary of him, my dear," she replies, walking away. "Considering what happened with your sister."

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, only to hiss when Azelma brushes the gash on his leg.

"Sorry."

Enjolras sits down on the sofa, looking at the woman staring him down from the opposite end of the room. Azelma's eyes flicker between them.

"So," Claire says finally, "where's Eponine?"

He swallows, and his throat runs dry. The weight on his shoulders grow heavier, and he turns his gaze to the floor.

Azelma's eyes tear up.

"What is it?" Claire asks.

Azelma exhales, her breath shaking. "She…she's gone."

"Gone? Gone where?" Claire looks between the both of them, then narrows her eyes towards Enjolras. "What have you done?"

"He…she…it wasn't like that," Azelma says. "It wasn't his fault."

"She…she took a bullet to chest," Enjolras says, thinking about the event, staring at the floor. "A close friend was making an attempt to save us all at the barricade, but he didn't see the gun pointed at him. She grabbed the barrel and…she could not turn it away from herself in time."

The older woman's eyes go wide, and she places a hand upon her chest.

"She did not suffer for long, if it eases your mind to know." He lifts his head. "She is buried in Cimetière Saint-Vincent should you wish to visit her."

Silence.

Claire shakes her head. "My word…"

"Would you like me to get you some tea?" Azelma asks.

"No, that won't be necessary."

Enjolras waits a few moments before speaking. "She was not afraid, and it is because of her sacrifice that I have come here." Enjolras reaches into his coat and removes the tattered parchment. He stands up and hands it to Claire. "This was given to me after she passed."

He sits down as Claire reads the note, moments of silence passing by. Azelma takes hold of Enjolras' hand. He tenses up at the touch, then relaxes.

He stares at parchment, watching the movement of Claire's hands as she reads it. The parchment has become the most important piece to the entire ordeal, and the last words of Eponine he will ever read.

The older woman puts the parchment down on the end table beside her. She takes a deep breath, then turns her attention towards him.

"She never said a word to you?"

"Of this? Not once," he replies.

"Hm," she says, a corner of her lip upturned.

His eyes flicker to the floor, then back up at the older woman.

"The boy's sleeping now, I shouldn't let you disturb him," Claire says, her eyes soft but her voice stern, "and you do need your rest, monsieur, between what happened last week and your journey today."

Enjolras nods, and there's a weight in his chest he realizes had not been there earlier. The screams, the terror, their panicked faces covered in gunpowder and dripping with blood, they flood his mind once more. Eponine, bleeding out at the base of barricade, a hole in her chest. His own wound, had it shifted a few inches, would have lead him to a similar fate.

His breath shakes as he exhales.

"Are you all right?" Azelma asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

A pause.

"I…I will be."

He awakes to the sound of pans clattering in the kitchen. He hisses as he stretches on the couch, forgetting about the wound in his shoulder. When he opens his eyes, he sees steel blue ones staring back at him with curiosity.

A small hand reaches for his face, but disappears with soft thud.

With stiffness in his limbs, he sits up, meeting the gaze of inquisitive young eyes, so similar to his own. Dark blond waves of surround Lucien's head, still short but once longer would become curls. The sunlight coming in from the window reflects off the child's hair, reminding him of the soft glow of candlelight.

The rustle of fabric entering the room causes him and the child to look up, Azelma carrying a tray of steaming water and cups for tea. She sets the tray down on the end table, then reaches for Lucien and picks him up in her arms.

"Eponine was right; he does look very much like you," Azelma comments as she sits on the couch beside him, then proceeds to bounce the child on her lap. Lucien lets out a high-pitched screech of laughter.

But he sees Eponine, too. Lucien's eyes, while strikingly blue like his, have a rounder, softer quality to them, something he doubts will fade as the child ages. When the child smiles, he catches a glimpse of the gamine in joyous times.

Enjolras nods, recalling the night and dawn of that instance in July 1830. How strange it felt for him to continue as if nothing had happened, a part he had well-convinced himself playing but later dwelled upon the "what if." Then to find out about this child, moments after Eponine's passing, was this another way, another chance, Life had given him while They knew well of the consequences June 1832 would bring?

Among the list of questions he'll never have answers to.

Claire walks into the room and pours out the cups of tea, a watchful eye towards her niece and grand-nephew. Her stare then turns to Enjolras. "Did you sleep well, monsieur?"

"Yes, thank you," he replies, turning his gaze away from Lucien.

"Good." Claire sits up straight. "I know the accommodations weren't the best, but as you can see, space is limited here."

"Your generosity is much appreciated, madame, given the circumstances."

She gives a curt nod before taking a sip of her tea. She sets down her cup. "Taking in account that you're well-rested, I suppose now we should get to discussing a rather important matter at hand: Lucien."

Eight years later…

The ride from Toulouse to Paris is a long one, one young Lucien will not let his father forget.

The child had been fidgeting the entire carriage ride, books, paper, graphite, and the outside views of unseen countrysides and strange city streets not enough to cease the energetic mind. Enjolras more than once had asked of the youth to stop tossing balled pieces of paper at him.

"Remember, we are visiting your mother, then we'll be staying with your Aunt Azelma for a few days. We'll stop at your Great-Aunt Claire's on the way back to break up the trip," Enjolras had said as they departed Toulouse. "I'm sure both will be pleased to see how tall you've grown since last summer."

The child had only shrugged.

The first trip to Paris had only been a few years back, and the streets had felt as unchanged as when Enjolras had left them with his blood splattered on its streets. His heart had sank at the emptiness of the Musain, windows broken and the building itself seemingly abandoned, never repaired from those bloody days in June. The two have stayed with Azelma each time, who now had a family of her own with her husband and two three-year-old girls, and another child was expected in the fall.

Two years ago, Enjolras had come upon the discovery of Marius Pontmercy's survival, having come across the man while wandering the streets near the Musain to pay his yearly respects. The two have corresponded through letters at least once a month since, each informing the other of the political events of their respective cities as well as that of their families. Pontmercy had gone to marry the love of his life, a young woman called Cosette, with whom he had a son and a daughter. Enjolras had informed him of Lucien, and while Pontmercy had at first been taken aback by the revelation, he was nonetheless glad to see that a friend of his was alive and well.

Every return to Paris, Enjolras has visited Cimetière Saint-Vincent. Azelma has always taken care of Lucien for a few hours when he makes such visits. This time, Lucien will accompany him.

Following a brief detour to drop off their luggage at Azelma's, Enjolras and Lucien make their way to Montmartre.

After informing the carriage driver they will need at least twenty minutes, Enjolras takes his son's hand and walks through the cemetery's gate.

Enjolras has told Lucien before about Eponine, but was unsure how much his son understood. The child claimed to understand what death meant, that a person was no longer living, no longer around to talk to or to share dinner with. As for the lack of a mother, Enjolras has always been at a loss for words beyond the explanation he did have one, but she passed away when he was still little.

"Maman's here?" Lucien asks as they walk down the path.

"She is," Enjolras replies, releasing a breath. He looks down the path ahead, looking where a raised slab of stone marks Eponine's final resting place.

The upturned earth from eight years ago has been covered with a few inches of raised marble, covering where her coffin laid beneath. The original headstone remains.

Enjolras stops in front of it. Lucien continues walking until the tug of his father's still figure draws him towards where his father stares.

"Maman?" Lucien asks, crouching down to inspect the marble.

"Yes," answers Enjolras.

The child glances towards him. "She's buried under this stone?"

"Yes."

Lucien turns back to the stone, and runs his hand along the edge. "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"How did Maman die?"

Enjolras walks over and kneels down beside him, placing a hand on top of the stone. "She died protecting Monsieur Pontmercy from a soldier."

Lucien nods, eyes flickering from the headstone to his father's face. "Was the soldier a bad man?"

"No, Lucien," answers Enjolras, who turns to meet his son's eyes. He reaches and touches Lucien's cheek. "No, the soldier was not a bad man."

"But he killed Maman!"

"I know, I know," Enjolras replies, hearing the sadness in Lucien's voice, and brings him in for a hug. "He was only doing his job. I don't think he wanted to kill your mother, but in that moment, that was a part of his job. Not all soldiers are bad men, Lucien, I want you to understand this. What your mother and I and our friends did when she died was not something the government liked, I need you to try and understand that, but that does not make us bad people, and what the soldier did does not make him a bad man."

The two break apart, and Enjolras looks into his son's eyes. "You are allowed to be mad, Lucien, but please don't be mad at the soldiers. I do not want you hating people who, while they have wronged you, may have not been doing it willingly."

Lucien nods, rubbing his eyes with hand. He then goes back to looking at the grave.

Enjolras turns back to the grave, then reaches into his coat. His hand holds a red rose.

He twirls the flower by the stem in his hand, his eyes flickering between it and Eponine's headstone. He places his free hand on the marble.

"I brought him this time," he murmurs. "I thought it was time he knew."

A part of him wishes Eponine were there to see. Would she be smiling, happy to know he had found Lucien, and was caring for him the best as he could without her? Would she be proud of him, proud of them?

He places the red rose on the marble, letting his fingers graze the marble. Despite the sun shining above in a clear sky, a drop of rain falls down his cheek.

Lucien moves to stand beside him. "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Did Maman love me?"

"Very much," Enjolras replies, turning his head to Lucien. "She loved you more than anyone else."

"More than you?"

Enjolras smiles, and places a hand on his son's shoulder. "Yes, and in a different way."

"Oh," Lucien replies. "How?"

"I will explain another day," Enjolras says. "Now, say goodbye to Maman; I told your aunt we would be back for dinner."

Lucien nods, and waves towards the headstone. "Goodbye, Maman!"

The two start to walk away, Enjolras taking hold of Lucien's hand, using his free hand to wave back at the stone. For moment, when he turns his head, Enjolras swears he sees Eponine, no longer in rags, watching them leave with a smile upon her face. However, when he blinks, all he sees near the marble is the rose he placed upon it.

He pauses in his steps.

"Everything all right, Papa?" Lucien asks when they stop.

Enjolras, who turns his head back to look at his son. "Yes, everything is well."

The pair continue on, Enjolras glancing in her direction one more time before exiting the cemetery's gates.