More Enjonine

 It had happened on maybe the fifth time he had seen her… maybe it had been the sixth… he wasn’t quite sure…

She had been standing there in the crowd, just another face among many, her dark eyes wide and wistful in her thin, pale face. She had watched him almost enraptured, as if drinking in every word. Somehow it had put more fire in his speech, as if she was silently urging him on.

Afterwards, when the crowd had drifted off and he stood alone on the makeshift platform, clutching his crumpled notes in his fist, she approached him, her lips twisted into an almost teasing smile.

“You did good this time,” she laughed a little, tossing the wild dark hair that fell tangled around her shoulders. “I almost believed what you were saying.”

“Almost, eh? Then it wasn’t good enough,” he raised an eyebrow, trying to determine what exactly she meant and if she was actually serious.

“Oh, it was good enough. Believe me, if it wasn’t, I’d have made the crowd riot. I can do things like that. You oughta thank me.” she giggled. He frowned, confused.

“Well… guess I owe you one…” He was about to offer her lunch, but what she said next, he had never expected.

“Then kiss me, Monsieur,” she grinned, tilting her face towards him. His eyes widened and he stammered out an excuse, the first thing that came to mind. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wished them unsaid.

“I… I don’t know how…”

“You don’t know how?” she repeated, looking mildly confused herself now. 

“Never kissed anyone before…” he backed up a step, his mind spinning wildly. Her face softened and she smiled, a mixture of amusement and gentleness… and something he had never seen before. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“You’re overthinking it,” she murmured and, standing on tiptoe, took his face in her hands. He didn’t move, holding his breath, until he felt the warmth of her lips pressed gently against his. He made a startled noise against her, his eyes opening wider at first and then they drifted shut. Without thinking, he let himself kiss her back. And suddenly, almost before he realized it… she was gone, darting away like a shadow.

He had seen her many times since then, but somehow that moment came forward the most vividly in his mind as he stood there, perched halfway up on the barricade, just enough that he could reach over the top as he took aim with his rifle, and then ducked down again, bullets whistling over his head. It was ridiculous. Here was the moment he had waited and planned for half his life. He was fighting for all he was worth… and this was all he could think of… the feeling of her lips against his… that quick, teasing smile… and the spark in her eyes. She was so real, so alive… and she was standing at his side.

For a moment, he thought he had somehow imagined her into existence. His head jerked back as he whirled to face her, his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out. She grinned at him, that same fierce look, full of mischief and camaraderie and that something else he had never been able to put a name to. She was dressed in boys’ clothes, but her hair hung loose around her shoulders, wild and tangled as ever. Crouching down at his feet, she opened up a pistol that she somehow had in her hands and shoved bullets back into it. He went down beside her, kneeling behind the barricade.

“Eponine? What on earth… what are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” she tossed her head. “I’m fighting.” She clicked the pistol shut, testing its weight in her palm. 

“No, you’re not.” His voice was deadly firm, but it didn’t seem to register. She was on her feet again and he watched in something akin to awe as she took aim, dropping an officer’s horse with a careful shot. 

“I don’t shoot to kill,” she shrugged. “Disable the enemy, but I don’t want to destroy them.”

“You’re not… you’re not fighting…” he reached forward, his hands closing around hers. She stared at him, frowning, as he peeled her fingers away from the pistol and slipped it into his pocket.

“Thief!” she cried sharply, lunging towards him. “Give that back!”

“Thief?” he echoed, looking at her curiously. He sidestepped her advance, grabbing her arms easily and rendering her immobile. “Where did you get it?”

She flushed, avoiding his gaze. His grip on her arms tightened.

“Listen. It’s dangerous here. You need to get out, now.”

“I’m not a china doll,” she spat out angrily. “You think just because I’m a woman that I’m in any more danger than you? We’re all risking our lives, citizen. I understand the cost. This is my battle too… even more than it is yours.”

The thud of a cannonball echoed heavily through the air, the barricade shuddering at its very foundation. Enjolras looked down at Eponine and felt a sudden terror lurch through his entire being… a feeling such as he never had felt before. A wild urge to protect her no matter what.

“You are getting out of here.”

“Make me,” she grinned impudently up at him. Something in it irked him and his eyes narrowed. Fine, then. He’d make her. He reached out before he even thought about it, swinging her up off her feet and slinging her over his shoulder almost effortlessly. She yelped in surprise, twisting violently in his grip, arms and legs flailing.

“Put me down, you… you… idiot!” she screeched, managing to jam her knee into his chest. He hissed through his teeth at the impact, tightening his hold as he moved swiftly toward the relative safety of the Musain. She only struggled harder as he shoved the door open with his shoulder, nearly stumbling as he made his way inside.

“Do you have a death wish, girl?” he scoffed as he lowered her to the floor in the back storage room. She was on her feet again instantly, trying to duck under his arm as she bolted toward the door. He caught her and dragged her back, pushing her firmly down. 

“What is wrong with you?” she snarled, already trying to push herself back up. He pressed his knee on her legs, pinning her down.

“I don’t want you to die,” he said simply. She stopped struggling completely, just for a moment or two, her jaw going slack and her eyes widening slightly as she stared at him.

“You lie,” her fingers dug into his arm, trying to wrench his hold off of her. He grabbed her wrists, pressing them tightly together in his hands, startled by how thin and frail they seemed… almost brittle. He was almost afraid he would break her.

“Promise me you won’t go out there again,” he spoke between clenched teeth. She glared, the look in her eyes almost poisonous.

“No.”

“Fine, then, if you’re going to be stubborn…” he transferred both her wrists to one hand as he reached into his pocket with the other, finding a large red handkerchief. 

“You wouldn’t dare…” she breathed, her eyes flooding with alarm as she realized what he was about to do. He didn’t bother answering as he wrapped the handkerchief around her wrists, binding them tightly together and tying several knots as hard as he could. 

She tested the strength of the bonds the moment he let go, her shoulders straining as she fought to get free. Her face reddened and she struggled harder, frantically. He moved back and she started kicking, fighting against him like a wildcat. Her knee connected with his ribs, hard, before he managed to duck out of the way. His fingers flew to his waist, tugging at the tricolor sash that he wore, undoing the knot. She didn’t have time to register what was happening as he pinned her flailing legs, binding her ankles together… too tightly, but he was too desperate to care. All he knew was that he had to keep her alive… and this was all he could think of.

“You’re insane,” she hissed as he let her go, but the fight had suddenly gone out of her. She slumped back against the wall, her head drooping. The edge had gone out of her voice, leaving nothing but weariness behind. 

“I’m keeping you alive,” he muttered, pressing his hand against his ribs where she had kicked him. It felt like it was bruising already. He paused, half-crouched on the floor as he prepared to stand, but not quite getting up yet as he caught his breath. She was looking at him strangely… that nameless something creeping into her eyes again.

“You’re going to die out there.” Her voice was almost a whisper. He nodded in answer, the gesture jerky. 

“Probably.”

“Then…” she was silent for a long, long moment. He didn’t move from where he knelt, bending over her so close that his breath stirred the hair hanging loose over her forehead. “Kiss me…” she murmured, her eyes almost vacant, her fingers curled against her heart where she had pressed her bound hands. “Before you go.”

He didn’t let himself think about it this time. He simply bent his head lower, kissing her lips gently. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not opening them even when he pulled away. She could feel his fingers on her face, gently tracing the line of her cheekbone and over her jaw… as if he was trying to memorize her. She leaned into his touch, but he was already moving away.

“Goodbye,” he whispered. She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. He got up slowly, hesitated… and then left, the door falling shut behind him, the sound final.

oOo

Time passed slowly. Every second dragged by agonizingly. Eponine struggled at first, meaning to get out and to fight again somehow… but the knots were tied too tightly and she couldn’t seem to free herself. So at last she lay still, leaning against the rough board wall of the storage room, her eyes pinned to the tiny window near the ceiling. She had watched the night turn into day, and as the sun grew brighter, the battle sounds reached a feverish pitch. The entire building was trembling with the force of the explosions outside. She could hear cannon fire and dying screams, and she trembled. Her teeth were clenched so tightly that her jaw ached.

Her mind simply wouldn’t stop. The pictures that kept flashing through her imagination seemed worse than if she really had been out there, witnessing the actual battle. She kept seeing Enjolras, imagining him falling from the barricade, his coat stained with blood. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would somehow block it out, but it only grew worse. The sounds coming from outside… it sounded like the barricade was being torn apart. She could hear the front door of the Musain crashing open, footsteps thundering on the stairs, gunshots all around her. 

At last, the door to the back room flew open and soldiers filled the tiny space. Eponine drew herself up as much as she could manage, her eyes flashing as she stared defiantly at the intruders. She braced her body for impact, waiting for them to shoot her… but they barely glanced at her, as if she hadn’t even been there.

They left as suddenly as they came, leaving the door ajar. She tried to drag herself forward, straining to see through. Everything had gone strangely silent. It was eerie… she shuddered, trying to calm the panic rising in her. Minutes passed. There were footsteps overhead, but they were slower. Distant voices rumbled, but they weren’t shouting. 

So… that was it. They were all dead, weren’t they. Eponine felt numb. She let herself fall back against the wall with a dull thud. She only had to wait a little longer, and then surely the soldiers would be back either to shoot her or free her. She tried not to think about what would happen then, if she was released into the aftermath all alone.

The footsteps grew louder, pounding down the stairs, and then a soldier’s frame filled the doorway. He glanced around the room and nodded, calling over his shoulder. “Just lock him in here, we can come back and get him later.”

He stepped back, and Enjolras was shoved into the room, flanked by soldiers who gripped his arms roughly. He looked exhausted and in pain, his hands bound behind his back, his coat gone and his shirt torn, smeared with blood and soot. Blood was trickling down the side of his face. 

Eponine drew her breath in sharply, stunned into silence as she watched the guards throw Enjolras to his knees. They were laughing, jeering at him. He swayed slightly, his shoulders trembling, although he held his head high. He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers. She read pain and sorrow there, more feeling than she had ever seen on his face before… as if his marble exterior was beginning to crack.

“Comfortable, citizen?” One of the soldiers kicked him roughly, sending him sprawling on the floor, face-first. He groaned, his teeth clenched tightly together as if trying to muffle his pain. Eponine forced herself to stay silent. Shouting at the soldiers would hardly do either of them any good. 

One of the soldiers stooped to bind his ankles roughly, and they kicked him again, laughing mercilessly. “Thought you’d put up more of a fight,” they sneered. “Try not to die before the show, eh?”

They seemed almost reluctant to leave, as if they would rather torment him longer, but a sharp order from a commanding officer sent the soldiers scrambling out, slamming the door shut behind them. A key turned in the lock. Only then did Eponine dare to speak, glancing tentatively at the man who lay crumpled on the floor beside her… the same man who had carried her here only a few hours ago.

“You’re alive…” she breathed, her heart skipping a beat. He didn’t answer, his eyes falling shut as he struggled to breathe. The sound of it was scaring her. “Enjolras…” her voice faltered. “What… what are they going to do?” She inched forward, nudging his shoulder with her knee. He turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting past her, glassy and unfocused, before finally settling on her face. 

“They… they want a… public spectacle…” he managed, his voice raspy. “Break the… spirit of the revolution. Gonna… make an example outta me.”

Eponine swallowed hard, her stomach twisting with fear. She couldn’t find the words to say. 

“I’m sorry…” he whispered, looking up at her. “Are you… did I hurt you?” he glanced at her bound wrists. “I just meant to keep you safe…”

Eponine exhaled slowly, inching closer to him. Carefully, she slid her bound hands beneath his head. He groaned softly but didn’t resist as she guided his head into her lap, brushing the tangled hair back from his face. Her touch was gentle, almost feather-light, as she traced the shape of his face, wiping away the sweat and dirt as best she could. It wasn’t like her. She had never before in her life touched anything with such gentle care as she did now. Even her kisses had been rough… but now she bent over him, her lips barely brushing against his temple. 

She froze suddenly, feeling a single tear tracing its way down his cheek. Pulling back slightly, she dried it with her thumb, her heart aching. His breath hitched… almost a sob.

“Are you alright?” she murmured, hating herself for asking the question. It seemed somehow as if nothing would ever be alright.

“I failed…” he whispered, turning his head to hide his face against her hands. 

“No, you didn’t,” she whispered back, her voice insistent. “You showed them that we are a real threat. They’re afraid of you. What happened out there will never be forgotten.” She refused to speak the words that tugged insistently at the back of her mind… you will not die in vain. She had thought she would never see him again… and yet, here he was… alive. She couldn’t think of him dying.

He fell silent after that, and she couldn’t think of anything else to say. So she simply stayed still, holding him… and praying. She hadn’t prayed in such a long time. But she seemed to realize that there really was nowhere else to turn but to God Himself. Her own whispered words, directed heavenward, comforted her somehow, bringing with them a sort of quiet peace. 

Enjolras’ breathing had evened out. His eyes were closed and she wondered if he was asleep. She didn’t know where he was hurt or how much pain he was in, and the thought frightened her. There wasn’t much she could do for him, bound as she was, and a prisoner in this room. For just a moment, her anger rose, directed at him. How dare he trap her here… but she heard his breath catch again, felt him trembling against her, and her anger dissolved completely. She ran her fingers over his jaw, tracing her thumb against his lips. They were bloody, almost swollen, as if he had taken a hit to the face. 

She bent her head again, resting her forehead against his cheek where he wasn’t bleeding. She didn’t know how much time they had before the soldiers returned… and she wanted to let him know somehow… but she hardly knew what it was wrapping around her heart. She kissed him again, before she could second-guess herself, and she felt him hold his breath, his hands fidgeting restlessly against the ropes as if he wanted to reach for her.

“Don’t…” he murmured, his voice broken. “I’m going to die. Don’t make it hard to go.”

She blinked hard, but too late, as a tear fell from her eyes and landed on his cheek, sliding down toward his chin. She wanted to say something… I don’t want you to go… stay with me… but she heard the rasp of the key turning in the lock and her head snapped up in alarm.

Enjolras’ whole body went tense, his hands curling into fists behind him, his knuckles white. Eponine curved her body over him, pulling his head closer against her stomach, as if she could shield him somehow from whatever was coming. The door burst open and she heard a low whistle followed by a chuckle.

“Well, well, look at this,” an officer stood in the doorway, laughing to the soldiers that were filing in behind him. “Looks like we’ve got a pair of lovebirds here.”

“Pathetic,” one of the guards snorted derisively, moving forward to kick Enjolras’ ribs brutally. “Leader of the rebellion, reduced to weeping in a woman’s lap.” 

“Pretty, though,” the other spoke appraisingly, bending to cup Eponine’s chin in his hand, tilting her head up. She jerked away from his touch, her eyes shooting sparks. “How’d you get here, huh?”

Enjolras twisted violently, pushing himself up on his elbows and snarling at the guard, teeth bared like an angry dog. “Don’t touch her,” he hissed, eyes narrowed. The guard let go of Eponine, chuckling lightly. 

“There, that’s more of what I expected from you,” he sneered and bent to slash through the ropes at Enjolras’ ankles with a knife before jerking him roughly to his feet. “Spirited till the end, eh, citizen?” Enjolras’ knees buckled, but the guard hauled him upright, shaking him like a rag doll. 

“Should we bring the woman, sir?” The first guard addressed the officer, nodding toward Eponine. The officer nodded sharply. Eponine recoiled as the guard tore off the sash tied around her ankles and pulled her up abruptly, his fingers digging into her arm, hard enough to bruise. 

Enjolras was already at the door, being dragged swiftly along between two soldiers, but he heard the question and tried in vain to turn back, struggling hard. “Let her go!” he cried, his eyes wild as he strained to see her, throwing his weight back against the grip of the soldiers.

“Shut up,” the guard snapped and shoved Eponine toward the door, sending her crashing against Enjolras’ side. She fell forward into the street, her knees hitting the cobblestones hard. By the time they dragged her up again, Enjolras was farther away, almost beyond her gaze as the soldiers closed in around him. 

How had they managed to gather a crowd so quickly after the fighting had ended? Eponine shook her head dazedly, her eyes wandering over the sea of bonnets and top hats that lined the sides of the streets. It had been like this yesterday when the revolution had begun… the crowd had gathered for LeMarque’s funeral. It felt like years ago already. She remembered watching Enjolras dash out into the open, the red flag of the revolution in his hands as the revolutionaries rushed to follow him, swarming the soldiers, a formidable force. Now he was alone and a prisoner. 

She could just barely catch a glimpse of him up ahead. The soldiers weren’t dragging him now. He was walking willingly, his head held high, his chin jutted forward in stubborn defiance and his shoulders squared. These people would never see him cry or slump in defeat.

It seemed as if the entire National Guard… or at least what was left of them… had joined in what had become a solemn procession. It was a like a mockery of yesterday… a freakish reproduction of what might have been, had the government had its way. They marched their single prisoner to the Place de la Bastille, on the spot where the first revolution had begun, decades earlier. Since the ancient prison had been torn to the ground, the open area had become a place of execution and public punishment. Eponine’s breath caught in her throat and it seemed as if putting one foot in front of the other was nearly impossible. The guard at her side had to half-drag, half-carry her. She was still as a stone in his grip at first and then she began to struggle wildly as panic set in. She couldn’t watch this… couldn’t bear to see Enjolras executed in front of all Paris. 

“Walk, gamine,” the guard bent to hiss in her ear, his fingers digging into her skin. “They aren’t going to kill him today.” Eponine tossed him a startled glance, questions flooding her mind… questions she was too frightened to ask. The guard leered at the fear written on her face and answered them anyway. “They’re trying to decide whether to sentence him to the guillotine or the firing squad. What do you think, eh?” he laughed, the hideous sound sending a shiver down her spine. “There will be a trial in the morning.”

“No…” Eponine choked out. He only laughed harder, dragging her forward as the military circled the area where an officer sat on horseback. The crowd hushed as he rode forward.

“Citizens of Paris!” His voice boomed out, echoing across the empty space. “Behold the architect of your suffering!” As if on cue, Enjolras was shoved forward, crashing to his knees in the center of the square. The impact echoed, a sickening crack of bone on stone… but he barely flinched. His chin lifted, bloodied and defiant.

“This man would see your homes and shops plundered, your government overthrown, peace destroyed and pure anarchy reigning in the streets!” the officer went on and Eponine couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the theatrics in his voice. It was so pathetic, the lies. She tried to drown out the words, not wanting to hear any more, but they kept coming. “Behold the consequence of treason!” the officer thundered as the guards stepped swiftly forward, dragging Enjolras to his feet again.

They slashed the ropes that bound his wrists, spinning him to face the ancient whipping post that stood before the Bastille monument. Eponine cried out again, trying to pull away from the guard who still held her firmly. She wanted to look away while they tore his shirt off and chained him against the post, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from his face. His expression never changed, not the slightest sign of fear. 

A guard stepped forward, removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves with deliberate slowness. A hush seemed to fall over the crowd as he accepted a coiled whip from an aide, and tested its weight with a practiced flick, the crack echoing through the air. 

Eponine never saw the first lash land across Enjolras’ shoulders. An officer had approached where she stood, her wrists still bound with the red handkerchief. His face was grim as he addressed the guard at her side. 

“Who is this woman?” his tone was brusque and commanding. The guard snapped to attention.

“We don’t know, sir. We found her with the rebel leader.”

“And you’re holding her prisoner based on that?” The officer raised his eyebrows. “What is your name, mademoiselle?”

“Eponine… Thenardier…” she managed to gasp out. She could hear every crack of the whip, the sound somehow striking pain into her heart. But she heard nothing from Enjolras. Her fingers dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood.

“Are you affiliated with the rebel leader, Enjolras Guillaume?” 

“I…” her breath hitched as she searched for something to say. She wasn’t exactly sure. “No…” she managed, not certain if that was the truth or not. The officer nodded, clearly not very interested.

“Release her,” he spoke to the guard before turning and stalking away. The guard narrowed his eyes, but pulled a knife from his belt obediently.

“Wait… please…” Eponine whispered, pleadingly. “Don’t cut it…”

“Why do you care?” he frowned at her, but stuck the knife back in his belt without further protest, tugging at the knots impatiently until they fell away. She snatched the handkerchief from his hand and tucked it into her coat pocket, her worried gaze turning back to Enjolras. His head snapped back as another lash hit, his teeth clenched together so tightly that she could see veins standing out sharply in his neck. But he refused to cry out.

She dashed forward without thinking, weaving through the rows of soldiers with the practiced speed and movement that had earned her the nickname ‘Shadow’. The crowd blurred as she kept running, ducking an outstretched arm. Someone was shouting, but she didn’t process the words. The whip hissed through the air again, but she was already there, throwing herself against Enjolras’ back, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. 

The officer hadn’t seen her in time to stop. She winced as she felt the sting of the lash against her shoulders, although it was not as heavy as it would have been had he not tried to pull back. She gasped, her fingers digging into Enjolras’ sides as he went rigid in her arms. Pressing her forehead between his shoulderblades, she steeled herself against the anticipated interference from the soldiers.

For a moment, nothing stirred. And suddenly, chaos erupted, the murmur of the crowd swelling into a deafening roar. The commanding officer barked angry orders as soldiers rushed forward. Eponine only clung harder to Enjolras, her knees trembling and her vision swimming with pain. She heard his breath hitch as her arms tightened around him, his wrists straining against the chains. 

“Go…” he choked out, a violent tremor shaking his body. He turned his head slightly, just enough that she caught the frantic gleam in his bloodshot eyes. “Eponine, go.”

Before she could force out her refusal, she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder, and she jerked against it, shaking her head in protest. “No… please…” she pleaded brokenly. 

“Easy,” a voice murmured, low and calm. “It’s alright.” The hands of the stranger were strangely gentle as they peeled her fingers away from Enjolras, pulling her back. She let herself be moved, too numb and dazed to fight any longer. She twisted back long enough to catch a glimpse of the man who was taking her away. He wasn’t a soldier. He was tall and broad-shouldered, silver streaked through his hair and sorrow lining his weathered face. 

“Let me go,” she whispered faintly, losing her balance. He caught her before she hit the cobblestones, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he drew her into the crowd. “They’re hurting him…” she could feel her resistance suddenly draining away, leaving only exhaustion and fear. She choked back a sob, straining to look at Enjolras, but the stranger gently turned her head back so she couldn’t see. And suddenly, without realizing what she was doing, she gripped his coat with both hands, burying her face against his shoulder as she let herself weep. 

“Shhh, child,” he murmured, his voice pained. His hand brushed over her hair in gentle comfort before settling against her shoulder. Something about the gesture shattered her last defense and she crumpled against him as if silently begging for help, for protection. “Just breathe. It’ll be alright.” 

“No…” Eponine gasped out. “They’re going to kill him.” 

The stranger didn’t answer at first. He just held her, letting her cry, while the whip echoed in the distance. Minutes dragged by. Eponine didn’t think she could bear the agony of that sound for another moment. She pulled back, frantic eyes searching the man’s face. “Who are you?” she frowned. He seemed vaguely familiar in a way she couldn’t place.

“My name is Fauchelevent,” he murmured. “Jean Fauchelevent. I… I can help you…” he lowered his voice with the last words, so quietly that she barely caught them. 

“Then stop them…” her voice heightened frantically and he held a warning finger to his lips. 

“It has to be the right time,” he whispered. “Just calm. Be strong for him.” 

The whip stilled at last, leaving a deadly silence. Eponine whirled, straining to see. Enjolras slumped limply against the post, his head lolling forward, sweat-drenched curls clinging to his forehead. Blood trickled down his back where the whip had cut deep. The guards stepped forward, unlocking the chains that held him there, and his body folded in on itself, nearly collapsing to the ground. They hauled him up, binding his wrists again in front of his body, even though he seemed to be unconscious. 

Eponine lurched forward instinctively, but Fauchelevent gripped her elbow, shaking his head slightly as she glanced back at him. The guards were half-carrying, half-dragging Enjolras to a waiting cart. They threw him inside with as little care as if he had been a sack of grain and the cart rolled away, followed by a few of the guards. The crowd was beginning to disperse, sensing that the spectacle was over… for now, at least. They had been promised a beheading on the very next day. 

“Please…” Eponine murmured desperately, clutching at Fauchelevent’s arm. “Where are they taking him? I must go…”

“Patience, child…” his brow furrowed. “You’re hurt… Come with me to my home. I have a daughter about your age, she can lend you a dress. I can have a doctor care for your wounds.”

“It’s nothing…” Eponine put a hand up instinctively, reaching behind her to feel her shoulder. She winced when her fingers grazed torn fabric and broken skin. 

“You’re wearing men’s clothing.”

“Necessity,” she spoke more sharply than she had intended. “I don’t care about myself. I need to go to Enjolras.”

“Is he your brother? Or husband?”

Eponine frowned, hesitating. “I… I don’t know…” she faltered. “I mean, no. He’s not either. But I…” she shrugged helplessly and Fauchelevent nodded knowingly.

“I understand.” He paused a moment. “Are you hungry?”

Eponine clutched her stomach, a look of longing crossing her face at the thought of food. She hadn’t eaten in two days. But she shook her head. No more distractions. She had to get to Enjolras as soon as possible. And if this man wouldn’t take her, then she would go herself.

“You’ll have to change before we go, regardless.” He was already walking, signifying her to follow. And she did, because what other choice did she have? “It’s illegal for a woman to wear man’s clothing. You can’t go into a prison looking like that.”

His home was grander than she had expected… a two-story brick mansion on the Rue Plumet, the bourgeois section of the city. She knew it instantly and realized why he had looked familiar. She hung back, her feet dragging, afraid to go any farther. He was Cosette’s father.

(am skipping this part for now cuz i don’t feel like writing it right now, lol)

oOo

Eponine wasn’t certain if the complete change in her appearance had heightened or lessened her confidence. She only felt merely confused as she sat perched stiffly on the seat opposite Fauchelevent while his carriage rattled down the streets toward the prison. She was dressed in the simplest dress Cosette had, a very plain and neat thing in a modest dark gray with a high collar and full sleeves. She had been offered grander dresses, of course, but she hadn’t wanted anything fancier. She had washed and brushed her hair, and braided it loosely, letting it drape over one shoulder. Pinning it up seemed unnatural.

“All will be well,” Fauchelevent assured her for what must have been the dozenth time, sensing her fear and nervousness. He smiled kindly, reaching out to squeeze her hand. She tried to smile back, but found the gesture impossible. She was longing to be down on the ground where she could run… the carriage simply couldn’t go fast enough.

It really wasn’t long before the carriage pulled to a stop before an enormous, formidable fortress of a building. Eponine drew her breath in sharply as Fauchelevent helped her out, her eyes darkening with fear.

“The Conciergerie…” she gasped faintly, pressing her hand against her heart. He nodded grimly.

“I made some inquiries. He’s here.”

Getting inside the massive prison was more of a lengthy process than she could have imagined. She hated everything about this place. It looked almost like a castle, its entrance mockingly grand. The entrance seemed like a place where grand ladies clad in exquisite ball gowns should be sweeping in on the arms of proper gentlemen. And deeper within, it turned into an endless labyrinth of despair. They followed a guard for what seemed like an eternity before they were brought into a small room that looked something like an office. The man at the desk glanced up brusquely, demanding their names and writing them down in a ledger before asking why they were here.

“This young lady was hoping to see the prisoner Enjolras Guillaume,” Fauchelevent nodded politely. “And I was hoping to speak to someone about the terms of his arrest.”

“Not possible,” the warden spoke flatly, slamming the ledger closed. “He is denied all visitors.”

“Can’t you make an exception?” Eponine spoke pleadingly, her heart sinking. The warden glanced at her piercingly.

“Are you his wife?”

Eponine hesitated, her face reddening. “Yes…” she said slowly, feeling her pulse race.

The man stared at her for a long time, as if trying to see through her. His steady gaze unnerved her and she dropped her eyes, fidgeting with the skirt of her dress. “Your name was given as Eponine Thenardier. The prisoner’s name is Guillaume. You’re lying, aren’t you. You’re not his wife.”

“I…” Eponine turned white then. She spoke without thinking about it, without even realizing what she was saying. “Then… if that’s what it takes… let me marry him now. Isn’t there a priest here?”

The warden looked stunned and Fauchelevent was speechless. Eponine’s own eyes grew wide and she resisted the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. Had she really said that?

“He’s going to die tomorrow,” the warden said at last. “You can’t marry him.”

“Please… just so I can be with him for the last day…” she really was going through with this, was she? “Isn’t it possible? A ceremony would only take a few minutes.”

Something in the warden’s face softened as he looked at her and suddenly, he nodded. “I’ll send a guard to speak with the prisoner. We’ll have to draw up a certificate. There is a priest in the building, yes.”

They were shown a place to sit and wait while a guard was sent off to collect the required information. Eponine sank into the offered seat breathlessly, twisting her fingers in her skirt. Fauchelevent was looking at her curiously.

“You really want to do this?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” she whispered. “But I have to do it.”

It wasn’t long before they were called back into the office, but it seemed an eternity to Eponine. She could scarcely breathe, but her heart was racing as she moved to the desk, unasked questions in her eyes. The warden was looking at her strangely.

“He agreed to it,” was all he said as he dropped a paper on the desk in front of her.

“He… he… really?” she stammered, her hands trembling.

“Signed his name right here,” the warden leaned over to point to a line on the paper. Enjolras’ name was written there, the handwriting shaky and slanted, a smear of blood at the end of the line. “Though why, God only knows. He has twenty-four hours left to live. So you want to be a widow, eh, girl?” Any trace of compassion he had shown earlier seemed to have vanished completely. Eponine shuddered, backing up to reach for the comforting warmth of Fauchelevent’s hand. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears trembling on her lashes. Her head was spinning.

They were escorted to Enjolras’ cell immediately after Eponine signed her own name below his. The door creaked open slowly on rusty hinges. It was a horrible, cramped little room, the only light coming from a tiny barred window, high in the wall. The late afternoon sunlight shone down to illuminate the figure of a man lying face-down on a rickety cot. He turned his head when they came in, his eyes flickering open at first and then falling halfway shut. His back was bare, blood still seeping from uncared-for wounds. His bound hands dangled over the edge of the cot. 

“Eponine…” he whispered her name. She stood motionless in the doorway, suddenly too afraid to step nearer.

“You… you really want to go through with this?” she murmured.

“Yes.” He didn’t even hesitate. “But you… want to marry a dead man?”

“You’re alive now…” she held out her hands in a helpless gesture, palms up. He tried to lift his head, but fell back again, weakly. She went to him, kneeling on the floor by his cot, reaching out tentatively to run her fingers through his tangled, sweat-dampened hair. “I’ll stay with you till the end,” she whispered. A tear tracked its way down his cheek and he nodded, too spent for words.

The door was opened once again, this time to admit an elderly priest. He stood like a statue in the center of the cell, clutching a large and worn Bible so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Are you ready?” his voice was gentle, his eyes worried.

Fauchelevent stepped forward, helping pull Enjolras to his feet. He swayed, unable to stand on his own. Eponine rushed forward, wrapping his arms around his waist, and let him lean on her. He slumped against her shoulder, his head drooping, as she held onto him with all of her strength. Fauchelevent stepped back then, but stayed poised and ready to move forward in case he fell. 

The priest hesitated, looking uncertain. He was glancing around the cell as if looking for a way to escape. Eponine nodded at him tentatively, bracing herself against Enjolras’ weight, and he began in a halting voice.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God…” 

The words blurred together in Eponine’s mind. She simply couldn’t process the depth of their meaning, it was too much to think about. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the heaviness of Enjolras’ body against hers, the way he trembled in her arms, his breathing rapid and shallow.

“Repeat after me,” the priest turned to Enjolras. “I, Enjolras Guillaume, take thee, Eponine Thenardier, to be my wedded wife…”

“I… Enjolras… Guillaume… take thee… Eponine Thenardier… to be my… my… wedded wife…” Enjolras repeated slowly, his voice weak and raspy. He curled his fingers around her arm. 

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish..”

Eponine turned her face against Enjolras’ shoulder to muffle a sob as he repeated the vows slowly, pausing to draw in ragged breaths. He bent his head over hers, burying his face in her hair as he whispered the last words… “Till death… do us part…”

His knees buckled and he pitched forward, dragging her down with him. Fauchelevent moved forward swiftly, lifting Enjolras’ limp body from the stone floor and helping him settle back on the cot. He bent nearly double as he sat there, Eponine kneeling before him, clutching both of his hands tightly in hers as she whispered her own vows. The priest’s eyes were downcast as if he was afraid to look at them. His voice was barely above a whisper as he pronounced them man and wife. 

Eponine said nothing when the ceremony was over… words seemed too inadequate. And Enjolras was too weak to speak. She bowed her head, her grip on his hands tightening as tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t do this… she couldn’t lose him so soon…

The priest stepped forward hesitantly, reaching out, and laid his hands on the two heads that were pressed close together. There were tears in his eyes and his voice trembled as he spoke. 

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”

As he spoke, his voice gathered strength, the weight of his hands on their heads firmer. There was power in those words… promise… a petition for deliverance. Eponine wept, pressing her forehead against Enjolras’ bound hands. He responded by squeezing her hands feebly, his breath hitching.

The priest finished reciting the Psalm and paused a moment before adding… “For with God, nothing shall be impossible.” He drew out every word slowly. “God bless you, my children.” And then he was gone, as the warden unlocked the door. Fauchelevent lingered behind only a moment, to whisper to Eponine.

“I will return as soon as I can. Take heart, child.”

And with that, the newlyweds were left alone. They simply stayed where they were for a long moment, sitting in perfect stillness. Gradually, the numb haze surrounding Eponine began to fade and she became more aware of the painful, ragged sound of Enjolras’ breathing, the feverish heat of his forehead where it pressed heavily against hers. She moved then, helping him ease onto the cot, stretching out carefully on his stomach. She was almost too afraid to look at his back. It was criss-crossed with deep, jagged wounds, most of them dripping blood. He hadn’t been cared for at all. She touched his shoulder and he recoiled instinctively, hissing through his teeth as her fingertips brushed against broken skin. 

“Why didn’t they wash the wounds?” she spoke in a low voice. “They need bandaged too.”

“Doesn’t… matter…” he murmured. “Won’t be much longer. They’ll kill me tomorrow, before the sun sets.”

“Don’t talk about death today…” Eponine’s vision clouded with tears. “I…” she faltered, not knowing what to say. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

He was quiet for a long time… so quiet, that she thought he was unconscious again. 

“Hold me…” he whispered at last. “I don’t want to be alone.” There was something in his voice she had never heard before… something fragile and vulnerable. It pierced her heart.

The thin straw pallet on the cot rustled as she sat down gingerly, hovering over him uncertainly like she wasn’t sure where to touch him without hurting him. She slid her hands under his head to lift it, cradling him in her lap as she had done that morning. He let out a shuddering sigh, the tension slowly leaving his body as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Why did you do it?” he asked softly after she had thought he was asleep. “Why did you marry me?”

“Why did you agree to it?” she countered, not really knowing what to say. He didn’t answer. She let her hand travel lower, pressing gently between his shoulder blades. A tremor passed through his body. “You’re cold…”

“Maybe… maybe I’ll die before they can kill me…” he spoke hoarsely, shuddering again. She reached to untie the shawl she had knotted around her body and draped it over his shoulders, praying that it wouldn’t stick to the bleeding wounds and make them worse.

“Don’t talk now,” Eponine sighed, pressing her fingers against his lips. “Just… just rest. Try not to think too hard. I’m here.”

He seemed to fall asleep after that… but whether it was natural sleep or unconsciousness from the pain, Eponine didn’t know. She sat as still as a statue for what seemed like hours, just holding him close and praying. She was afraid to move lest she wake or hurt him.  

The warden brought a meager supper by the time the sun had nearly disappeared over the horizon. It was almost completely dark inside the little cell, and Eponine hated it. As bad as this place had been in the daytime, at night it was unbearable. The food consisted of a bowl of watery broth and some hard bread. She woke Enjolras, helping him sit up before trying to get him to eat. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, his voice slurred, but he was insistent. No matter how much she coaxed or begged, he refused to even touch the food. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “It can’t help me now.” He slumped sideways, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder. With a sigh, she set the tray aside and reached to wrap her arms around him. She wanted to voice her hope that perhaps Fauchelevent really could do something to help him… but the words refused to come. Deep down, she really didn’t believe that anything could be done. And the weight of that hopelessness was overwhelming.

“You’re… my… my wife now…” Enjolras spoke again, his voice growing a little louder, just barely above a whisper. “So… everything I have… is yours. The Musain cafe… I own it. It’s yours now. I… I lived in the rooms above the cafe… you can live there now. Bank accounts… I… there are three… all yours. The marriage certificate. Use that to claim the money. I’ll… I’ll speak to Fauchelevent… he… he can help you take possession.”

“I don’t want it…” Eponine’s voice trembled as she pulled him closer, burying her face in his hair. “I… I want you.”

He was silent for a long moment, as if trying to process her words.

“I have to go,” he murmured. “I always knew I would die for the revolution. I… I just… I didn’t think it would be this way.”

“Surely there’s some other way…” Eponine’s breath hitched with suppressed sobs.

“Take the money, Eponine,” he whispered. “Live, and be happy. But don’t forget me.”

“Are… are you in a lot of pain?” she asked tentatively, after a moment of silence. He hesitated, and then nodded.

“I can bear it. It’s only for a little while longer.”

“Can you…” she paused, and couldn’t find the words to finish her feeble request. Instead her fingers moved to his wrists, tugging gently at the knots in the ropes that bound his hands. It took several minutes of work before the ropes finally fell away and he curled his hands into fists as feeling slowly returned. “Just once…” she murmured as she laid down gingerly beside him on the narrow cot. “Just once… please…” she didn’t know how to ask, but he understood, reaching out carefully to wrap his arms around her.

They didn’t speak again, just lay in silence, holding each other close. There wasn’t anything left to say. Eponine’s mind spun torturous circles, long into the night. From where she lay, she watched the stars slowly appear between the bars of the tiny window. The moon rose, casting a slatted pattern on the dirty floor. 

In the dim light of the moon, she studied him almost dutifully, as if to memorize him. He was asleep… or unconscious… and barely moved all night long, except to shift slightly, murmuring something incoherent. She traced her eyes over the shape of his face, the way his lashes lay against his cheek, the jut of his chin that was determined and defiant still, even in sleep. She reached out tentatively to touch his lips, and he almost smiled. He looked younger in the moonlight, and vulnerable. There was something of a little boy in him, and the realization of it only made her heart ache worse. 

She stared until she could no longer bear her own thoughts and she turned against him with a sob, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. Every time he stirred, he clutched her tighter. And with every passing moment, the thought that he would die within a few short hours hurt her even more. That she must go the entire rest of her life without ever feeling his arms around her like this, or seeing his rare smile, or listening to his fiery speeches… what even was her life without him in it? And when had it happened that she actually needed him so much? 

Maybe… maybe they would let her die with him.

Somehow, in the wee hours of the morning, she fell asleep. When she woke, only a few hours later, it took her a while to remember where she was. At first she only registered the comforting warmth and weight of his arm slung across her body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. It was then that everything came spilling back into her memory in a flood of painful, stark reality… and she was angry with herself. She hadn’t meant to waste a moment of the time she had left with him in something so frivolous as sleep. But she had been so exhausted… and was still. 

There were footsteps echoing down the hall, growing closer, and then a rattle of keys at the door. Eponine sat up abruptly, pushing disheveled strands of hair back from her eyes just as the warden shoved the door open.

“Morning,” he grunted, setting a tin bowl of bread and broth down on the floor unceremoniously. “Trial starts in an hour.”

Enjolras stirred when the warden spoke, his head tossing restlessly. His eyes fluttered halfway open and then fell closed again as he groaned in pain. The warden was leaving already, but Eponine reached out beseechingly.

“Wait… please…” she cried out, a desperate note creeping into her voice. “Please… he… he needs a change of clothes. He… he cannot stand trial like this. And… and water and bandages for his wounds… please…”

The warden stared at her, uncomprehending. “Woman, he’s gonna die in a few hours. They’re gonna chop off his head…” he made a grisly slicing motion across his throat, and grinned, showing where he was missing several teeth. “He don’t need no fancy clothes or bandages.”

“At least a shirt and coat, please…” Eponine begged. “I… I can pay.”

The warden shrugged lazily. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He jerked the door shut with a heavy clang and turned the key in the lock. He was gone for several minutes, during which Eponine tried in vain to get Enjolras to eat, but he turned his face away from her. He was almost unresponsive that morning, not even speaking to her, although he reached out for her hand, lacing his fingers tightly through hers.

When the warden returned, he was holding a clean white shirt and a black ribbon. He tossed them carelessly inside, jerking his head towards them. “That’s all he gets. Couldn’t find any coat and he don’t need bandages. Tie his hair back for the guillotine. The guards’ll be in to get him soon.”

Then, merciful silence again after the warden left. Eponine bent over Enjolras, shaking his shoulder gently. He wasn’t even looking at her. She cupped her hand over his cheek, turning his head towards her. 

“Enjo…” she murmured his name, unconsciously shortening it. “It’s… it’s almost time…” she tried to keep the tremor out of her voice, and failed. “Let me help you…” 

He stayed motionless, but he didn’t resist when she tugged him into a sitting position, trying so hard not to hurt him. He slumped forward, his head hanging. She reached for the shirt, shaking it out. It was poorly made from rough muslin fabric, but at least it was clean. 

“Please…” she whispered, draping it over his shoulders. He hissed in pain when the fabric made contact with broken skin, but he said nothing. “This… this will help. I’m… I’m sorry if I’m hurting you…” her brow furrowed,  her hands trembling as she gently pushed his arms through the sleeves and buttoned the shirt almost to his chin, just leaving the collar open. “Is this okay?” she asked timidly, tilting his chin up so that he was forced to face her. She had picked up the ribbon, threading it nervously through restless fingers. “Is it alright if I tie your hair back?”

He opened his eyes and stared at her blankly. It made her shiver, and she dropped her gaze, afraid to look at him. He blinked once, twice, and finally nodded. She reached up, running her fingers through his tangled curls. Near his forehead, they were stiff and matted with dried blood. His head wound from the battle had never been tended to. She worked as gently as she could, pulling his hair back before tying the ribbon tightly around it. A few strands fell loose over his forehead and she brushed them back, her touch achingly tender. She was crying, her tears landing in his hair. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his forehead. 

A shudder ran through his body and he exhaled slowly, until it seemed that all the breath had gone out of him. He turned to glance up at her, the look in his eyes more torturous to see than before.

“Eponine…” His voice was so quiet, she could barely hear it. He made a feeble movement with his hand as if to reach for her, but he didn’t. “I was ready. And you… you made me afraid to die…”

She wrapped her arms around him almost fiercely, reckless of the wounds on his back until he let out a muffled groan. She loosened her grip, but didn’t let go. Her entire body was shaking with sobs.

“I have to tell you… before you… go…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘die’. “Enjo… I love you. With all my heart.”

He didn’t answer. But he went almost stiff in her arms. It was like he was already dead somehow, and it frightened her. And yet she clung to him, weeping. That was how the guards found them less than half an hour later. 

They pulled her away from him forcibly and jerked him to his feet, binding his hands behind his back roughly. They let her follow as they half-dragged, half-carried him down the corridor, but it seemed that she was already forgotten… left behind. Soon he would go where she could not follow.

The trial was a sham, like the stories that had been passed down about the false trials held during the infamous Reign of Terror. It lasted less than an hour. The crowd that had gathered seemed eager to get the whole ordeal over with. The sooner they could rid themselves of the rebel leader, the better… or so the judge declared when he gave the expected sentence… death by guillotine.

Eponine had stood in the crowd during the trial. She had gone numb, vaguely amazed at the fact that she was still standing somehow. The words spoken during the trial meant nothing to her. They might as well have been spoken in a different language. She merely stayed still, staring at Enjolras up above her in the defendant's stand as if he was all that was left in the world. He never looked at her, his eyes fixed on a point above her and in the distance. He didn’t say a single word in his defense and calmly accepted his fate without protest.

Fauchelevent found Eponine in the crowd just as the sentence was pronounced. She barely glanced at him as he gripped her arm, murmuring hurried words.

“You’ll have to leave the city immediately,” he was saying in an undertone. “As his wife, you’re not safe here. I’ve got a carriage outside, I’ll escort you somewhere safe.”

“I can’t leave…” Eponine answered dazedly, following Enjolras with her eyes as they took him from the room. “I have to go with him.”

“You don’t want to see this…” Fauchelevent’s face was white. Eponine jerked away from his grip, pushing through the crowd as she strained to get outside.

It all seemed to happen so quickly. The crowd was roaring like a wild animal as the prisoner was escorted to the public square where executions were held. The scaffold towered above them, the blade of the guillotine gleaming wickedly in the morning sunlight. Eponine looked at it and felt her knees buckle. She didn’t even try to stop herself from falling, but Fauchelevent, who had stayed by her side, caught her and steadied her back on her feet. She shoved him away again, absently, moving through the crowd as if she was walking in a dream.

Somehow, no one bothered to stop her as she pushed to the front, even past the guards. Enjolras was standing at the foot of the scaffold… in another moment they would force him up the steps… but Eponine broke out of her trance with a cry of anguish, throwing herself at him with all the desperation of her broken heart.

“I can’t… I can’t…” she sobbed incoherently, not noticing the guards as they spoke to her. She pressed her lips to Enjolras’, kissing him fiercely. He didn’t… couldn’t… kiss her back. He seemed to have been turned to stone. “Take me with you…” she gasped. “Let me die too.” She turned to the guards, her voice rising, so that all the onlookers could hear. “Let me die too!” she shouted wildly.

The guards peeled her away from him, and she fought them like a tiger, struggling as hard as she could… kicking, punching, biting, clawing. She was crying so hard she could hardly see. It was too late now… Enjolras had already climbed the steps, and the guards shoved her impatiently to the ground. She hit the cobblestones hard and didn’t bother trying to stand. 

She was still repeating herself, brokenly, when Fauchelevent reached her. “Let me die… let me die… I want to die…” She wouldn’t let him touch her, keeping her eyes steadily on Enjolras. He was shoved roughly onto the wooden plank of the guillotine as the blade was raised… and then she could look no more. She dropped her head onto the ground, the rough edges of the stones biting into her skin. 

Fauchelevent knelt at her side, gathering her into his arms, and lifted her like a child. She turned her face against him, keeping her eyes closed. She heard the dull thud of the blade… and her body went limp in his arms, her head lolling as she fell unconscious.

The crowd was strangely silent… only a few cheering half-heartedly… as the body of the leader was shoved into the waiting coffin. They didn’t even demand to see his head. One by one they turned away from the scene, as the executioner and his assistant nailed the lid on the coffin. Fauchelevent walked to where his carriage was waiting, Eponine cradled in his arms, and what was left of the crowd parted silently to make way for them.

How long Eponine was unconscious, she never was sure… but it must have been hours. When she woke at last, the city was far behind. She was lying on the carriage seat, Fauchelevent sitting opposite, nervously checking his pocket watch and glancing out the window as the country scenery slowly rolled by. 

“Mademoiselle?” he murmured questioningly when he saw her eyes open. She closed them again, not prepared yet to deal with what was left of life. The carriage rattled on in silence, mile after mile, before finally pulling to a stop in what seemed like the middle of nowhere.

She didn’t bother asking what they were doing here… she really didn’t care. But Fauchelevent answered her unspoken question anyway.

“We are meeting someone here,” he said simply, and she nodded, her eyes dull. Several minutes passed and she heard the creak of wagon wheels outside. Fauchelevent stepped out of the carriage, beckoning her to follow. She hesitated for a moment, and then dragged herself up, stepping out on wobbly legs. 

A farmer had pulled his cart up beside him… a plain, provincial man with a load of hay. Eponine frowned, confused. The farmer nodded at them grimly.

“Did you have any trouble?” Fauchelevent spoke, his tone concerned, and the man shook his head.

“None at all,” he responded curtly as he jumped from the wagon seat and moved to the back. Both men were shoving the hay aside and Eponine felt her heart stop beating at the sight of a wooden coffin beneath.

“Is… is that…” she breathed, her face turning a deadly shade of white. She wavered, but managed to reach out and grip the side of the wagon. The men heaved the coffin to the ground, yanking out the nails with desperate speed.

The lid was tossed aside… and Eponine cried out. Had she not been leaning against the wagon, she would have pitched forward again. There, inside the coffin, lay Enjolras… as pale and still as death, but… 

“Is… is he alive…?” she lowered herself shakily to her knees, leaning over the edge of the coffin to touch his face. He stirred at her touch, his lips parting slightly. She traced her fingers lower until she laid the palm of her hand against his heart. It was beating steadily.

“He’s in a bad way,” Fauchelevent murmured, kneeling beside her. “But he’s alive.”

“How…” she choked back a sob. Her head was spinning dizzily and she wondered if maybe she was still unconscious and only dreaming.

“Long story,” he shrugged. “Listen… we have several hours yet to go. There’s a place in the country where you can stay… just a little place, a cottage, really. Very secluded, but safe. You’ll have to care for him yourself. I mean… I’ll stay as long as I can, but…”

“I’ll manage,” she whispered, not tearing her eyes from Enjolras’ face.

“We need to get out of here… quickly…” Fauchelevent muttered, glancing around the vacant countryside warily. Eponine felt a sudden surge of protectiveness overwhelming her fear and weariness as she followed his gaze. 

“Then let’s hurry…” her hands hovered uncertainly over Enjolras, almost afraid to touch him. The men stooped over the coffin, sliding their arms beneath Enjolras’ body to lift him as carefully as they could. His head fell back limply, a faint groan escaping his lips. “Wait… careful…” she pleaded. “You’re hurting him…” She stumbled forward to reach out without thinking, steadying his head with trembling hands, cradling it awkwardly as they moved. He looked wrong… too still, too pale.

When they reached the carriage, Eponine climbed in first, reaching out as they lifted him in. The seat was too narrow… they guided him to the floor instead as she pulled him gently toward her. His body folded against her, his head falling into her lap. Her fingers brushed against his cheek and then withdrew quickly, as if she feared that even the slightest touch could break him. 

Fauchelevent left them alone inside the carriage, sitting up front with the driver as the vehicle lurched jerkily forward, bumping over the rough country road. Every jolt felt bigger than ever before as Eponine did what she could to shield Enjolras from the impact. She forced herself to stay calm, focusing on the faint rise and fall of his chest, assuring herself over and over that he would be alright. He was alive, after all… and while there was life, there was hope…

“Enjo…” she breathed, bending lower over him. “It’s alright… I’m here… just… just hold on…” His lashes flickered briefly and she allowed herself the tiniest sigh of relief. “I’m here…” she repeated again, her voice gathering strength. “Everything will be alright now…”

His lips parted slightly as his brow creased. A faint tremor passed through him, his head shifting weakly. She trailed careful fingers over his forehead, curling her body protectively over him as the carriage rattled on.

Only an hour more passed before the carriage pulled to a stop for the final time, but to Eponine, it had seemed a torturous eternity. Enjolras was feverish-hot, and although he sometimes groaned in pain, he was still unconscious. His hands were still bound, trapped behind his back, but she was too afraid to move him enough to free them.

Eponine’s eyes widened when she stepped out of the carriage to see the cottage. She certainly hadn’t been expecting anything so wonderful as this. It lifted her spirits just to look at it. It was small, a little three-room stone cottage set down a long, winding lane in a clearing in the woods. Behind it was meadow, but hemmed in with trees in a way that somehow made it feel safer. 

The carriage driver helped Fauchelevent carry Enjolras inside and Eponine trailed behind nervously, twisting her fingers together. They passed through a living room, comfortably furnished, with a large brick fireplace, and into the next room, which was a bedroom, also furnished. The kitchen, Eponine was told, was off to the side of the front room. Enjolras was laid down carefully on the bed, and then the driver retreated to carry in a few large trunks. 

Eponine rushed forward to fumble at the ropes tied around Enjolras’ wrists. He was lying on his stomach, his face turned to the side, his eyes still closed. But he stirred at her touch and she felt yet another surge of hope. The knots were stubborn and she struggled for a moment, gritting her teeth in frustration, until Fauchelevent gently pushed her aside and cut the ropes away with a knife.

“I’ve brought everything that you might need,” he spoke quietly as he pulled the loose ropes away and settled Enjolras’ arms carefully at his sides. “One trunk contains clothing for both of you. In another, there are all the medical supplies you should need, and the third and fourth trunks are household supplies and food. The village is a three mile walk, if you go to the end of the lane and turn to the right, that road will take you straight there. I would advise caution if you decide to send for a doctor… lash wounds would be difficult to explain without revealing his identity…” he nodded toward Enjolras, his brow furrowing in concern. “It would be best if you can care for him yourself. Be careful if you need to go into the village for anything. Choose at least a different surname, do not use Guillaume. They’ll be looking for him.” He sighed heavily and turned to one of the trunks, unlocking it with a large key and heaving it open. “There are pistols in here, and ammunition, so you can defend yourself, should it come to that. I need to return to the city tonight, but I will be back within the week to check on you both.” 

Eponine only stared at him, uncomprehending. She opened her mouth as if to speak and then closed it again, gesturing vaguely at the room around her and the trunks at her feet. “You… you mean… all this… for… for us?” She shook her head. 

“The cottage is mine. I lived here for a few years, but I don’t need it anymore. I’ve rented it out in the past, but you are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. It’s a bit too close to the city, but hopefully safe enough. At least he can recover here.”

“I’ve… I mean… I never dreamed…” Eponine tried to scrape up some semblance of coherent gratitude, but she hardly knew what to say. Fauchelevent smiled faintly. Reaching out, he settled a firm hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll be praying. And remember, you’re stronger than you think, Child. God be with you.” 

Those words stuck with Eponine long after he had left, echoing in her mind, comfortingly. The moment the door closed behind him, she repeated them to herself… you’re stronger than you think… and ran her hands through her hair, exhaling shakily. She dragged the trunk with medical supplies closer to the bed and flung it open before sinking down on the edge of the mattress, turning to press her hand gently against Enjolras’ shoulder.

“It’s just you and me now, I guess…” she said softly, frowning slightly. “I’ll do my best.” She bit down hard on her lip as she set to work, praying that she would somehow know what to do. He was too heavy for her to lift on her own and she didn’t dare roll him over, so she simply used a pair of scissors to cut his shirt away. She couldn’t help but gasp in horror when she saw his back. It was worse than she had remembered, the wounds long and deep, and growing infected. 

He woke up when she was halfway through washing and bandaging his wounds. His head tossed restlessly and he reached out a trembling hand, clutching at air. She leaned forward, grasping his hand tightly in her own, relief flooding her heart when she saw his eyes flicker open. He stared at her blankly for a moment as she moved to kneel beside him where he could see her… and suddenly his eyes filled with an unspeakable horror.

“No…” he rasped, the effort of speaking sending a racking cough through his body. “No… go… go back…”

Eponine was startled. Uncertain what to say, she simply stared back, her own face reflecting alarm. He closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them again, his brow furrowing. He squeezed her hand so tightly that she gasped, shocked by the sudden strength in his grip.

“They… no… they… took you too…” he groaned, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

“No… Enjo… I’m right here…” she whispered back, pressing the palm of her hand against his cheek. “I’m here… it’s alright…”

“No…” he moaned, his eyes falling shut again. “No… no…” he tossed his head again, a single tear trickling from beneath closed eyelids, tracing a path down his cheek. She wiped it gently away with her thumb. He lay still a moment, as if completely exhausted, and then pulled his hand from hers, reaching up to where her other hand still lingered on his face. His movements now were feeble and slow, but there was no mistaking that he was trying to push her away. 

Eponine pulled back and drew herself up sharply, both frightened and confused. He was frowning deeper now, his eyes still closed, his lips forming the word “no” over and over, although his voice didn’t utter it. 

“You…” he gasped out at last, his voice barely audible. “You shouldn’t… be… here…” and he trailed off again into silence. Eponine stiffened instinctively.

“I’m… sorry…” she stammered, unsure what she was even apologizing for. What did he mean? Did he not want her to be with him? Perhaps this had all been a mistake… the whole hasty last-minute wedding and coming here with him…

But he was silent now. She bit her lip, blinking back tears as she bent over him again, carefully finishing her work. Whether he wanted her or not, she wasn’t going to leave him like this. He shifted uncomfortably under her hands, his back tensing as she tried to wrap the bandages. It seemed as if the pain was somehow growing sharper. She tried to move even more gently, finding that she was clenching her jaw so tightly that it ached. He gripped the sheets until his knuckles turned white, his whole body jerking sideways violently. She cried out, startled, clapping her hand over her mouth. 

“Enjo, please… I…” She knelt on the floor again, pleading with him. He was looking at her, his eyes searching her face wildly. They were filled with pain and fear and confusion.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice urgent, but seeming slightly more coherent than before. “Why… this pain…?”

“Because they hurt you really badly,” she murmured. “You’ll be alright now…” she hoped she sounded like she meant it. He wasn’t out of danger yet. “Let me help you…”

“I’m… dead…” he said flatly, blinking at her. A cold chill ran through her and she shuddered.

“No, no… you’re not dead…” she reached out to him and then let her hand fall limply in her lap. “You’re alive…  you’re here, with me… safe…”

“Safe…” he echoed, as if trying to comprehend the meaning of the word. She leaned forward, pressing her hand firmly between his shoulder blades, trying to hold him still, as she reached again for the roll of bandages. He was shaking, and even the gentlest touch, no matter how careful she tried to be, caused him to writhe in pain. She tried to talk to him, but he didn’t seem to fully understand. Somehow she managed to finish wrapping the bandages, somewhat clumsily, and sank down onto the edge of the bed with a weary sigh. 

He had buried his face into the pillow, holding onto it as tightly as he could. He didn’t move for a long time, and she was starting to worry, until at last he turned his head toward her, still frowning.

“So…” he spoke slowly. “I… where are we?”

“We’re outside of the city. In a cottage that belongs to Fauchelevent… he did everything, Enjo… and I still don’t know how…” she shook her head helplessly. “But you need lots of rest now, and I’ll do my best to help…”

 

“But they… I remember… the… the guillotine… I heard the blade fall…” 

“Oh, Enjo…” Eponine sighed wearily, her head drooping. She fiddled aimlessly with the skirt of her dress, rubbing the linen fabric between her fingers restlessly. “I… I don’t know… I mean… I’m not sure how it happened… all I know is… you’re alive… and…” she shrugged, letting her words hang in the air. She was suddenly so bone-tired, all she wanted to do was curl up and sleep for as long as she could. But she couldn’t rest… not yet… “You haven’t eaten…” she added quietly. “I’ll get you something.” He didn’t answer. 

Fauchelevent had moved the trunks with food supplies into the kitchen so she went there to find them, rummaging through the contents. Most of it she wasn’t entirely certain what to do with… flour, sugar, salt, oil… she realized with a sinking heart that she really had no idea how to cook. After a rather stressful session of rattling around with pots and pans, a cut on her thumb, and a burned finger, Eponine succeeded in making some sort of a watery chicken soup, and bread that didn’t look much like bread. It had come out flat, dry, and a little hard. The triumph she had felt when she slid the bread into the round brick oven in the fireplace evaporated entirely when at last she took it out again. 

During her kitchen pilgrimage, she had turned back to the bedroom several times to check on Enjolras. He had fallen asleep again, his face troubled even in rest. She tenderly brushed the hair back from his bandaged forehead and almost bent to kiss him, but she held back, uncertain.

She didn’t want to wake him, even though she knew how much he needed to eat. He had gone too long without food… or water, she realized, worried all over again. Regardless, she decided to let him sleep just a little while longer, hoping he would wake up on his own soon. But he didn’t… and she was worn out with the effort of keeping the soup warm over the fire. She built up the fire in the bedroom and moved the kettle of soup so she could keep an eye on it while watching him. 

She must have drifted off at some point, although she didn’t remember falling asleep. She came to with a gasp, finding herself sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall. She could smell something odd… it took her a few moments to realize that it was the soup, burning. She jumped up to take it from the fire, forgetting to use a towel to grip the handle, and pulled her hands back with a cry of pain. Determined, she snatched up the hem of her skirt, using it as a cushion against the heat as she finally managed to set the kettle aside on the floor. The soup looked alright, but it smelled terrible, and when it cooled enough for her to try it, it tasted even worse.

She let the spoon fall from her fingers, not caring that it landed on the floor, smearing soup over the floorboards. She had tried so hard, and was so tired and discouraged… she gulped back a sob, wiping furiously at her eyes, but couldn’t hold it back any longer. She curled forward, pressing her forehead against her knees as she burst into tears. She let herself cry, gasping, racking sobs that shook her entire body, half-wishing she could have died at the barricade. 

“Eponine…” 

She didn’t hear him until the second time he said her name, his voice still raspy. Glancing up, she saw him trying to push himself up on his elbows, looking around as if to search for her. He turned his head enough to catch a glimpse for her and then fell back weakly. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and stood slowly, moving towards him.

“What’s wrong?” he muttered, frowning up at her. She shrugged, blinking back tears. His gaze drifted to her hands, clenched in the fabric of her skirt. “You’re hurt?” Again, he tried to raise himself, his breath hitching painfully with the effort.

“I’m fine,” Eponine spoke shortly. “Don’t… don’t try to get up…” She stepped closer but didn’t reach out, keeping her hands curled into tight fists to keep her from realizing the pain too much. He didn’t look convinced.

“That’s not true,” he murmured, still looking at her hands. “Come here… let me see…”

Eponine hesitated, but something in his voice broke her, and tears slipped down her cheeks again as she moved forward, slowly holding out her hand. He shifted slightly, enough that he could take her hand in his, turning her palm up.

“I… I was trying to cook…” she explained, hating that her lower lip was trembling. “I’m not very good at it.” His thumb brushed over the reddened skin, feather-light, and she hissed through her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. His gaze darted to her face, concerned. “It’s fine,” she added quickly. “Really.”

“You’re hurt…” he frowned deeper, lifting his head slightly as he stared at the mark on her palm. “You shouldn’t… have to do this…” he paused to cough violently and dropped his head back on the pillow with a groan. “You should go…” he added in a whisper.

“I won’t leave you,” Eponine spoke forcefully, and then her voice softened. “I… I mean… I’ll help as long as you need me.”

“I don’t need your pity,” he almost spat the words out and she was surprised at the brief strength in his voice. The effort of speaking so hard silenced him and he turned his face away from her, letting her hand fall from his grasp. 

“Oh really?” she snapped, hurt. “Fine, then… just starve and die of your pain then. You’re ungrateful and a stubborn wretch.” She turned as if to flee the room, but paused in the doorway. Leaning against the doorframe, she sighed wearily, and at last let herself slide slowly down to sit on the floor. Enjolras hadn’t moved. “I’m sorry…” she added in a whisper. “I just wanted to help.”

The silence stretched out until it became awkward. Eponine kept her eyes down, her hands lying palm-up in her lap. The faint red marks that lined each hand were throbbing fiercely. In some small way, she was glad of the pain… it gave her something else to focus on. 

Behind her, she heard the faint sound of sheets rustling. She didn’t look up, too upset to even see him just yet. She needed to rethink what she was doing and somehow find out how to help him in a different way… even if that meant getting him a doctor and then leaving forever. Maybe he would be more receptive to a professional’s help.

She heard him groan and at last turned her head, to see him struggling to get up. He was halfway sitting already, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the veins standing out in his neck. His arms were trembling with the effort of holding his body up, but he was still trying, his eyes squeezed shut as if he was fighting a battle inside of himself.

“What are you doing?” she cried, jumping to her feet. He glanced at her, startled, wavering slightly. His elbow slipped, sending a jolt through his body that drew a broken gasp from his lips, but he forced himself higher, inch by inch. “Are you trying to tear yourself apart?” She was at his side already, reaching out to steady him, but he shook his head.

“Just… need water…” he rasped, his breath coming in short bursts. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I said… I don’t… need…” He slipped then, falling sideways with a strangled cry as the movement twisted his back. He nearly fell off the bed, but somehow Eponine managed to catch him clumsily, leaning forward to brace her body weight against his chest as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“You can’t even sit up straight,” she snapped. He went rigid beneath her touch, hissing through his teeth as her hands made contact with his wounds.

“Stop…” he whispered, the determination leaving his voice. She hesitated, her heart throbbing in answer to the pain in his voice. He shifted in her arms, pressing his lips tight together to muffle a groan.

“Stay still,” she said firmly, holding him closer until at last he let go, sagging against her. She eased him back down as carefully as she could, although her movements were awkward and clumsy. He was too heavy for her, and she was so tired, but somehow she managed, guiding his head gently back to the pillow. “Why won’t you let me help you?” she murmured softly, as he lay motionless, his face drawn with pain. He didn’t answer, but she hadn’t expected him to. She filled a glass with water and helped him drink, refilling it quickly when he drained it in just a few desperate gulps. 

“Just rest now,” she used the corner of the sheet to dry the water that had spilled down his chin. “I’ll… try to make more soup…” she grimaced, resisting the urge to inspect her burned skin more closely. She didn’t want him to realize she was hurting. She found another roll of bandages, wrapping her hands as she turned back to the fire.

“Eponine…” Enjolras murmured, tossing restlessly. “Don’t… don’t make more… I’ll eat it…”

“It tastes terrible…” Eponine frowned into the kettle. “I can’t make you eat this…”

“Bet I’ve had worse…” he laughed slightly, the sound ending in a racking cough. Eponine winced. “Just… if you bring me a bowl… I… I can…”

Eponine gave in, mostly because she was too tired to try cooking again, and it was getting late. The sun had gone down a little while ago, the only light in the room from the fire on the hearth. She ladled a generous amount of the soup into a bowl and cut a slice of her bread, sighing disconsolately at the way it crumbled in her fingers. She decided to put it into the soup instead… at least it would give it a little more substance and hopefully make it taste a little better.

“I’ll make something better tomorrow, I hope…” she set the bowl down on the bedside table and turned to him, hands on her hips. “Please let me help you up.”

Enjolras exhaled slowly before nodding. Eponine moved as carefully as she could, propping him up against the pillows. She didn’t let her touch linger this time, instead simply moving him and letting go again. She sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the bowl of soup in her hands, but he reached out for it.

“I can feed myself,” he muttered. She gave him the bowl without argument and went to fill one for herself before sitting gingerly back down beside him. He held the bowl awkwardly against his chest, dipping the spoon into the broth. His hand trembled as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, some of the liquid spilling out before he could swallow it. Eponine pretended not to notice, calmly eating her own soup.

He managed a few bites, slowly and painfully, not commenting on the taste. Eponine remained silent, although she kept trying to think of things to say and changing her mind about speaking. For a long while, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the clink of spoons.

A sudden racking cough shook Enjolras’ body and he dropped the spoon, soup spilling over the sheets. He paused for breath, falling back against the pillows, before grasping the spoon again, more determined than before. His hand was trembling even harder and it seemed to hurt him just to lift his arm slightly. Hating to see him struggle, Eponine pushed her own bowl aside before reaching for the spoon, taking it gently from his hand.

“No…” he protested weakly. “I can manage… really…”

“Just let me,” Eponine spoke quietly, avoiding his eyes. “You’re not proving anything.” She lifted the spoon to his lips. He moved his head back a little at first, but at last the tension faded from his shoulders and he slumped against the pillows as he let her feed him. “If I was the one who got hurt,” she added softly. “You’d help me, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” he muttered. “And I’d kill whoever hurt you,” the last bit he added under his breath, so quietly that she barely caught it. She smiled faintly. Something in him seemed to give in after that, and he let her finish feeding him the soup without resistance. 

“More?” she asked simply when the bowl was empty. He shook his head, closing his eyes.

“Need to sleep…” he whispered. He looked as exhausted as she felt. This time he didn’t fight her when she helped him back down, checking to make sure his bandages were secure and pulling the covers up over his shoulders. She let her fingers move gently through his curls and he sighed, his eyes falling shut. 

He was asleep in moments and she was relieved to hear his breathing even out, steady and deep. She let her shoulders sag, her hands dropping wearily into her lap. For a moment she glanced longingly at the empty side of the bed, but shook her head. He clearly wanted space… and anyway, she would likely hurt him if she rolled against him in her sleep. She sat still for a little while longer, gathering her strength, and spread out a few blankets on the floor beside the bed, close enough that if he woke in the middle of the night, she would be right by his side. 

She rummaged in one of the trunks to find a comfortable muslin nightgown. She undressed quickly and slipped it over her head with a sigh of relief, realizing that she hadn’t changed out of her dress in two days. The nightgown was soft and the blankets were warm… much better than her accustomed sleeping situations on the streets of Paris or in her family’s miserable flat. She was asleep almost before her head even hit the pillow.

oOo

How long she slept she didn’t know. When she woke to the sound of his voice, it was still dark outside. The fire had died down and she could barely see the outline of his face. He sounded even weaker now, but somehow coherent.

“What… what are you doing… down there?” He paused to draw in a ragged breath. She pushed herself up to her knees, alarmed.

“Are you alright? Are you in pain?” She untangled herself from the blankets, stumbling to her feet. 

“I’m… fine…” The tremor in his voice belied his words. She bent over him, pressing her hand against his forehead, but he shook his head against her. “Don’t… don’t sleep on the floor… ‘Ponine…”

“Didn’t want to hurt you…” Eponine was working as she spoke, dipping a cotton rag in water and wringing it out. “And anyway… you seemed to want space…” she gently wiped the sweat from his face and pressed the wet cloth against his shoulders. He was burning up. 

“No…” he groaned. “Not… not like that…” He managed to lift his hand, his fingers brushing against her wrist as she hovered over him. “Please…”

She froze, her hand poised in midair. Water dripped from the cloth onto his cheek. “You mean… what?”

“You… you need… to rest…” he gasped out, every word strained with pain. “Promise me…” 

“Promise what?” She let her hand lower, resting on his head. Her eyes were adjusting more to the dark now and she could just barely see how his face twisted in pain, his eyes clenched shut and then opening again, staring up at her, worried…

“Lie down,” he whispered. “Sleep. Won’t… hurt me…”

She was quiet for a long moment, uncertain if she heard right. At last she spoke, her voice unsteady and barely above a whisper. “Alright… if you’re sure…”

He didn’t answer, and she stood still for a long moment before deciding to take his silence as assent. She retrieved her pillow from the floor and carefully pulled the covers aside, moving so slowly, as if prepared at any moment to retreat. He turned his head towards her, blinking up at her in the darkness, and she froze.

“It’s alright… ‘Ponine…” he barely whispered the words as his hand, lying on the pillow beside his head, slowly slid towards her. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to lay her hand on top of his.

“This is all so… strange…” she murmured, almost more to herself than him. “Just two days ago… I mean… I can… hardly believe… how are we married? What… what happened?” 

His fingers twitched restlessly beneath hers and she turned to look down at him. His eyes were closed. A sudden wave of exhaustion swept over her. Now was not the time to try to think… if she didn’t get rest, and lots of it, she wasn’t going to be able to care for him at all. She lay down gingerly, stiff as a board on the very edge of the bed, leaving a good ten inches of space between them. Even this far, she could feel the intense heat radiating from his body, and the realization of it made her heart lurch with fear. Somehow, she would have to get a doctor… she felt so miserably helpless…

He turned his hand slowly, palm up, so that her hand was cradled in his. He squeezed her fingers gently, murmuring something she couldn’t make out. Little by little, she forced her body to relax, the tension leaving until she felt limp, as if every ounce of her strength was gone. She fell asleep listening to the sound of his breathing, her last coherent thought simply counting each breath.

oOo

Eponine woke with a jolt, sitting bolt upright in bed almost before her eyes were open. It made her dizzy, moving that quickly, and she reeled a moment, pressing her hands against her forehead. Someone was calling through the house… she thought at first they must be in the front room, but then dimly realized the voice was coming from farther away, likely at the front door. Her first thought was panic as she dropped her gaze to Enjolras’ sleeping form. Light was streaming in through the cracks in the shuttered windows, painting stripes on his flushed face, and instinctively she reached out a hand to press against his cheek as she listened with bated breath.

Slowly it registered in her mind that the voice belonged to a woman. Surely that couldn’t be much of a threat? Well, she knew better. Anyone and everyone was guilty until proven innocent. She slipped from bed, careful not to jostle Enjolras, and reached for the pistol Fauchelevent had left. She had loaded it last night and placed it within easy reach. Now she snatched up a large woolen shawl in a gray-blue shade, wrapping it around her shoulders, more to conceal the gun than for warmth. 

The door was still bolted, and she pressed her ear against the rough wood, waiting. Whoever was out there knocked again, calling out impatiently.

“Is anyone hoooome?” The voice, which sounded like it belonged to an elderly person, cracked slightly on the last word. 

“Who’s there?” Eponine called out cautiously.

“Ah, there you are, I knew you were there,” the voice answered in delight. “I’ve brought some breakfast. Won’t you open the door? I’m afraid it is rather hard carrying on a conversation through a solid oak door.”

Eponine deliberated a moment, then keeping a firm hand on the handle of the pistol, she carefully drew back the bolt and opened the door just a few inches, enough for her to peek out cautiously. A rather small woman stood on the doorstep, clad in pale pink linen that was mostly covered with a voluminous white apron. A red kerchief with white polka dots was tied around her graying hair, and the brightest green eyes twinkled out of a weathered face. In her hands she clutched a huge wicker basket.

“Good morning!” she spoke cheerily, her face beaming as she smiled a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “I saw your carriage arrive last night, and oh, I wanted to visit so badly, but I thought, just a little time to let you get settled, and then I’d be over the next day. I hope you haven’t already had your breakfast, it is rather late… nearer to lunchtime, I’m afraid, but then, I didn’t want to be here at the crack of dawn… and you can have breakfast food for lunch as well as breakfast…” she paused in her rambling to eye Eponine curiously, up and down. “Why, child, you’re still in your nightgown, oh, I do apologize…”

“I just woke up…” Eponine mumbled, tightening her grip on the shawl while simultaneously loosening her hold on the pistol just slightly. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she realized she was still horribly tired, and sagged against the door frame wearily.

“Oh… well… don’t mind me, then… I’ll just leave you with this, and… oh, silly me, I’ve forgotten to share my name… Amelie, Amelie Dupont. My husband and I live just down the lane, our cottage is a bit hidden behind some rather large trees, so a little difficult to see if you aren’t looking for it.”

“Eponine…” she answered hesitantly, her mind swirling as she tried to think what even to give as a last name. Thenardier? That wasn’t really her name anymore, was it… And Guillaume… certainly not, too dangerous. “Enjolras…” she added, almost without thinking. “Eponine Enjolras.” Surely that would be alright… a first name couldn’t be incriminating.

“Glad to meet you, Madame Enjolras, or is it Mademoiselle? I’d give you a hug, but my hands are much too full…”

“It’s Madame,” Eponine spoke quietly and opened the door wider. She couldn’t imagine this woman posing a threat… even as paranoid and distrustful as Eponine was. “Please… come in…” She led the way to the kitchen, casting a wary glance in the direction of the bedroom in passing, but not a sound did she hear. “My husband is still sleeping,” she added, trying to sound casual, as Amelie set the basket down on the kitchen table. “Yesterday was… a big day…”

“I’ll imagine it was,” Amelie smiled disarmingly as she untucked the white cloth from the top of the basket with a flourish. “It always is quite the exhausting affair to move to a new place… where did you come from, if I may ask?” She glanced around the kitchen, and Eponine followed her gaze, flushing a little as she realized what a mess she had left the room in the night before. 

“From… Paris…” Eponine let herself sink into one of the hard wooden chairs with a sigh. Amelie nodded as she unpacked the basket, taking out fresh muffins, scones, loaves of bread, a large wheel of cheese, slices of ham… Eponine lifted her head, eyes widening. Her stomach rumbled and she realized how hungry she was. The only thing she had eaten in well over a day was her burned broth and dry bread last night. She glanced down at her hand, the one not hiding the pistol, shaking where it clutched her shawl.

“I hope you’re both hungry,” Amelie went on cheerfully. “I do bake a lot… I don’t have much else to do these days, since my children have all moved on. I bake and I clean and I garden. I have the finest herb garden in all this countryside, if I do say so myself. All the farmers and the villagers come to me for whatever ails them… herbs are better than any doctor, I always say. Anything you need, dear, anything at all. Raspberry leaves for the cramps, peppermint for indigestion…”

“Do you have anything for fever?” Eponine cried so suddenly that Amelie looked startled, dropping the apple she had taken from the basket. It rolled across the table and fell into Eponine’s lap. 

“Fever? Why… certainly. I have quite a few…”

“And pain, anything for pain?” Eponine interrupted again. Amelie nodded, having stopped midsentence at Eponine’s outburst, and then her forehead creased in concern.

“My… yes… are you alright, my dear? Are you ill?” She looked Eponine over.

“I… no… my husband…” Eponine stammered, wondering how much she could safely say. “He’s… sick… that’s… uh… that’s why we came to the country. So he can recover.”

“Oh… well then I can help!” Amelie brightened considerably, even more than before. “Just tell me everything… how did he get sick, what are his symptoms? I’ll run over to my garden and get everything you need, and then I’ll show you how to care for him.”

Eponine slumped forward in relief, exhaling slowly. “Um… well, he… he has a bad fever. He’s burning up. Very weak… and he’s in a lot of pain.”

“Fever is usually a side effect of the real problem,” Amelie frowned. “Do you know what is causing the pain?”

Eponine turned pale. “Well, I…” she struggled to find the words. “He’s… hurt… it was… um… an accident. Fell off a horse…” It was the first thing that came to mind and not very plausible, but she didn’t know what else to say. Amelie frowned deeper.

“May I see him? I’ll be able to help him better if I understand what kind of wounds he has.”

Eponine shook her head automatically, her fear deepening. “I… I don’t know if…” she paused. Her first thought on waking up this morning had been to get a doctor, hadn’t it? And surely this woman was safer than a doctor. She seemed friendly enough, and more knowledgeable than Eponine. And if Enjolras didn’t get proper care soon, he might… She couldn’t finish the thought, so she pushed back her chair and stood abruptly. “I’ll ask him,” she added firmly, trying to steady her voice. “I’ll see if he’s awake… if you don’t mind waiting…”

Enjolras seemed to still be asleep when she came in. She touched his shoulder gently, calling his name, but he didn’t stir. His skin was almost fiery hot to the touch and she jerked her hand back in alarm. “Enjo…” she murmured, her voice rising slightly as she turned his head towards her, trying to get some response, anything. “Can you hear me? It’s Eponine… please… look at me…”

He moved just slightly, turning his face into her hand, his forehead pressed against her palm. He mumbled something incoherent, not opening his eyes. 

“Madame?” Eponine called out shakily, her heart racing. She forgot caution, feeling only desperation. “Madame… Dupont…”

Amelie appeared in the doorway almost instantly. “Call me Amelie,” she spoke without preamble, bustling into the room as she rolled up her sleeves. “It’s alright, dear, stand aside, let me see.” She leaned over Enjolras with professional efficiency, feeling his forehead and counting his pulse. Eponine hovered close, her hands fluttering nervously over the sheets, adjusting them over his shoulders. Before she could protest, Amelie had turned the covers aside, surveying the bloody bandages on his back. Eponine caught her breath, fear twisting in the pit of her stomach, but she handed over the scissors at Amelie’s request, watching as she carefully snipped the bandages away.

“Fell off a horse, you say?” Amelie’s voice softened as she stared at the deep gashes criss-crossing Enjolras’ back. There was no mistaking what had made those wounds. Eponine nodded, her voice sticking in her throat, as she gripped fistfuls of her nightgown in attempt to steady herself. “This… this is… very bad… he should have had immediate care. There will be complications… infection, terrible scarring… when did it happen?”

“Two days ago,” Eponine whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She was holding back the urge to blurt out the entire story. Amelie straightened up and beckoned her into the corner.

“Those are whip wounds,” she murmured, her eyes filling with worry. “Are you both alright? Are you safe? Does anyone know you are here?”

“I… don’t know…” Eponine faltered, her knees buckling slightly. She leaned against the wall for support. 

“Was it a public flogging?” At Eponine’s hesitant nod, she reached out to squeeze the younger woman’s hand, reassuringly. “You have nothing to fear with me, my dear. I promise you that. I only ask so I know how best to help you. I don’t need to know all the details, just enough that I know what he needs… and if you’re needing protection…”

Eponine nodded again, slowly letting out a long breath as she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. Wordlessly, Amelie fished a handkerchief from her apron pocket and handed it over.

“He… uh… there was… well, fighting… in the streets,” Eponine whispered hesitantly, clutching the handkerchief as if it was her lifeline. “He got caught up in it… there’s a terrible gash in his head, in his hairline. And… uh… he was arrested afterwards… and they whipped him… really hard…” She wiped tears away, shakily, and took another deep breath. “He was in prison overnight, and… they let me stay with him… but there was nothing I could do for him… and he refused to eat. The wounds were uncovered all that time… they didn’t give him a shirt till morning. Um… we managed to… well, someone helped us make it out here yesterday evening… and since then, I’ve done what I could…”

Amelie shuddered, horrified, her eyes wide with sympathy and understanding as Eponine spoke. “Alright,” she murmured. “Here’s what we’ll do. You’re going to sit down and get some good food into your stomach, and you’re going to get some rest, understand? I’ll make some broth, that and strong tea will do wonders for him. I’m going to run home now and get everything I need, and then I’ll dress his wounds before we get him to eat.” Her voice gathered strength throughout this speech and her confident capability set Eponine’s mind almost at ease. 

Amelie leaned forward to wrap an arm around the girl’s shoulders and Eponine flinched, hissing through her teeth. Her own wound, a single raised welt striped across her shoulders, she had dismissed as minor and tried her best to ignore. But it was causing her pain. Which only made everything worse somehow, for not only did every movement hurt her, it also made her realize how much worse this must be for Enjolras.

“You’re hurt too,” it was more of a statement than a question.

“It’s nothing,” Eponine muttered. “I took a lash for him. Accident.”

“That’s not nothing, and I’ll take a look at it, as soon as I can,” Amelie nodded with an air of authority.

oOo

Amelie really was as capable and efficient as she appeared to be.