Ch 10

The National Guard had paraded the bruised and bloodied Jehan in front of the men behind the barricade, revealing their friend they had captured nights before and offering truce in exchange for surrender. But the National Guard hardly offered Enjolras and the others the chance to discuss their options. Instead they flaunted Jehan before dragging him by the collar, an animal for slaughter, the man's arms gripping the wrist of the soldier that took him. He kicked and screamed, and Enjolras and the rest of the Amis stood helpless behind their barricade as they watched the National Guard haul their friend away. His screams shook Enjolras to the core, his heart hammering in his chest as he watched Jehan struggle and scream. The soldiers took Jehan around the corner, the orange flames in the night and the flickering shadows that accompanied them were all that could be seen as Jehan screamed.

"Bastards!" Joly yelled.

"Murderers!" Lesgle roared.

"You didn't give us time!" Came Combeferre.

"Truce! Truce!" Enjolras shouted.

But the gunshots rang out anyway, their pleas for nothing.

Enjolras could not be sure who shot the first bullet, which side officially started the battle he now found himself in. Nevertheless, he blamed was the National Guard. They, who executed their friend before they could surrender, were the reason for the bloodshed now. And the battle was vicious and relentless as bodies dropped dead and the dying wriggled and screamed in agony. He had not considered the true horror of fighting. He had known of it, heard the stories and read of valiant fights and heroes, but to experience it first hand, the blood and the gore, the sheer fear as a man knew his death was near was unlike anything he had imagined. Stories don't tell of brave men shitting themselves as they stared down the barrel of a gun. They don't tell of the stench and the piss and the blood and the bodies.

From up above, as Enjolras hid to refill his rifle, Mabeuf, a humble Parisian citizen, stood on the barricade, defending the red flag of revolution, of freedom. And before he could blink, a bullet hit Mabeuf, his head tilting back to the black sky and stepped back. He fell from the barricade, his body smashing hard against stone, blood turning the ground to burgundy. Enjolras stared wide-eyed, his mouth agape, rage threatening to overtake his fear. He turned away from the body as Joly and Combeferre lugged Mabeuf's body away, blood leaving thick streaks behind. He took Mabeuf's spot beside the flag.

Shouts rang out, loud bangs, screams, gunfire, his senses overrun as adrenaline took control. Smoke wafted up his nose, clouded his vision, his fingertips burning as he pulled the trigger, sparks spitting from the rifle. He struggled to keep his mind from submitting to frenzy as men died all around him. A shot for Mabeuf, a shot for Jehan. All the more for Éponine.

And then shouts hindered gunfire, and across the barricade Marius held a torch to a keg of gunpowder. Marius, you fool, Enjolras thought, licking his lips. You'll kill us all.

He remained standing on top of the barricade as he watched the National Guard retreat. He waited, breathing heavily as he lowered his rifle, and he could feel the stickiness of sweat beading on his forehead. He then heard a young voice, too young to be from the Amis, cry out, "Murderer!" He frowned. What now when the fighting has ceased? Enjolras climbed down the barricade, leaving his gun to rest against it on the ground, his expression stern as he noticed his friends gathering around Marius. Perhaps to berate him on his recklessness. But before he could get to the group, he noticed Le Cabuc, a citizen volunteer like Mabeuf, was on his knees, his hands up in surrender, the large man forced down at gunpoint by Courfeyrac and a teary-eyed Gavorache.

"Gavroche says he's actually Claquesous from the Patron-Minette gang," said Courfeyrac.

"He killed Éponine," the boy said.

Enjolras' eyes widened, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach, and he was sure it had stopped entirely. His insides tingled with fading warmth, horror stopping his breath. He did not look at the men before him. The world around him seemed to slow, blood pumping in his ears. That cannot be, he thought. She was never here, she can't have died. He walked over to the crowd around Marius, pushed passed them, a step in front of them as he stared down at Marius. And there she was, raven hair, porcelain skin, red, and bloody, a pool of crimson beneath her.

This isn't real. He had just seen her a few nights ago. He stared down at Éponine, her skin sickly pale as blood seeped from her abdomen. She gasped and groaned, her eyes struggling to remain open. He cursed under his breath, hating whatever forces that led her here to die.

She stretched her arm out as if waiting for someone to take it, unable to speak though she struggled to do so. She laid there in Marius' arms, and Enjolras grit his teeth, despising him. Marius had no right to touch her, to hold her, to breathe her air. Take her from him, clutch her close. Tell her everything before it's too late. Enjolras wished to take his place, but she would resent him for it. Éponine had longed for this, to be in the arms of the man she loved. Enjolras had no right to take that from her. He never had a chance. Marius was the only one she wanted. She made it clear that night in her bedroom.

His eyes burned wet as he again helplessly stood, watching Éponine choke for seconds more of life, his heart longing, dissolving to ash as he watched her fight for air and cough on her own blood, a red line dripping from her lips. She shook her head, wriggling in Marius' arms, perhaps from the pain. Enjolras would do anything to turn time to prevent this, to end her agony now, to save her life. But the reality of it could not be wished away; lingering thoughts of "if only" could not save her.

"Put an end to it," someone behind him mumbled solemnly.

His lips parted at the thought, a mercy killing. Would he be able to pulling the trigger?

She then choked out and he thought he heard her say his name.

"Éponine?" He said, stepping forward, some feeble hope stirring in him. "Éppie?"

And her head turned, and he held his breath as she looked at him. How quickly her eyes turned, glazed and unseeing, vacant and empty, void of life. She was dead. Enjolras turned, his heart pounding again with a fiery wrath as he violently, uncaringly pushed back his friends. His eyes were ablaze, his expression hard, unwavering, blood boiling beneath his skin hot enough to burn through to the outside. His teeth showed as he approached Courfeyrac, snatching the pistol from his hands, pointing it at Claquesous, the brute's eyes widening. "No wait—"

"Step back," Enjolras ordered Courfeyrac and Gavroche, and seeing his pure rage, without hesitation they moved out of range of the gun.

No one said a word, no one stopped him as he fired the first shot into Claquesous, the bullet piecing the man's face, and he collapsed with his back to the stone. Everyone remained silent as he threw the gun down, depleted of its one bullet, useless, and took his own rifle that lay on the ground. After firing his own into the dead man, he turned and took the rifles and guns from each of his friends, eight more weapons for eight more bullets that he released into the dead man's face, leaving Claquesous unrecognizable. Enjolras yelled as he shot him again and again, screaming out his passion, hatred, devastation, pain like fire to render all of Paris to cinders. Blood and flesh and bone, the insides of him on the outside was not enough to satisfy Enjolras, not enough to bring back Éponine. He panted, staring down at his work before dropping the last gun and walking up to Marius who now stood holding her in his arms. Enjolras said nothing as he took her from him, holding her close, the rose with unclipped thrones in an embrace he had longed for for so long, her blood immediately turning his clothes red, seeping into his skin, his bones, chilling him.

He took her into the Musain and up the stairs, laying her out on the table. Her eyes had been left open, her lips parted, thoughts on her lips she can now never convey. But Enjolras could. He pulled a chair beside her and sat, staring into those lifeless eyes that can never stare back. He had stared into them often in the past, longingly, though she never seemed to see, not even on the night he left her his coat. Perhaps if he had said more, perhaps if he had kissed her like he wanted to—but what if she rejected him then? What if he had, and she returned it? If he hadn't been so reticent, so cold to her, perhaps she'd still be alive. And if he told her he loved her?

He wanted to touch her, to stroke her hair, her face, to kiss her cold, purple lips lined with blood. But even in her death, he could not allow himself such luxuries, he couldn't betray her, knowing full well that her heart was never his. Gently, he closed her eyelids and placed her hands over her chest.

There was an emptiness inside of him, nothing but a house for bones, a hollow ache, and a sick feeling of nausea as every word she ever spoke to him filled his mind. He shuddered, his body suddenly heavy as marble, and he was trembling. He clenched his fists. "You warned me, Éponine." Enjolras said, "You siad there would be no happy ending here. You warned me, and I didn't listen."

His sigh quivered, his head in his palms, his teeth clamped together, sobs raking through him, holding back another scream. His imminent death loomed over him, his death, his friends' death—all his fault. And yet as that truth took its hold on him, it could not overcome the loss of Éponine. He then jumped up to his feet, viciously gripped the chair and threw it and it smashed against the wall. His hands curled into fists. He paced, and then stopped to look at her. "I wanted to protect you, and I failed!" He hissed a sigh and cursed, shaking, remembering how warm she was in his arms, how beautiful she was beneath him as she touched his cheek. "I shouldn't have left you that night! I shouldn't have forced myself away! I shouldn't have been so petty and spiteful and jealous, and it kept me away from you!" I thought if I left you for good, it would stunt my pain. If I cut you from me then I could forget. He rubbed his lips together, forcing a neutral expression, struggling to keep from breaking entirely as he stood above her and stared down at her. You denied me for Marius again and again and again. If not for him, we might have been happy. If Marius hadn't been first, perhaps you might have loved me.

Enjolras remained at her side all night, unable to bring himself to leave. He couldn't leave her, not now. No one will watch over her, no one will mourn. Maruis will never come for her, and Enjolras cannot abandon her. She'll be cold. She'll be alone. He can't do that to her.

It was Joly that came to him as dawn slowly crept up, threatening to reveal his horrible failure to the world.

"Enjolras," he said.

He did not look at him. His eyes could not tear away from Éponine as he leaned over her, his hands on the table, fingers dipped in her cold blood.

Joly hesitated, "I do not pretend to know how much she meant to you. No one knew. But we all know you're grieving."

Enjolras swallowed, his index finger scraping against the wood.

"We need you, my friend. Our fight is not over."

Enjolras closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. "Give me a moment more."

Joly stared at him warily before retreating downstairs, his footsteps echoing as he left. Enjolras' eyes looked over Éponine. The velvet and scarlet had always been lovely on her. But the maroon at her stomach and pale, gray skin disrupted her peaceful image, along with the sharp contrast from her ebony hair. Her dark eyelashes were gentle on her cheeks—how often he wished to kiss her eyelids, her lips chapped—he'd kiss them too had she ever permitted—but instead he had remained complacent with his lonely lot. But now, alone with her, he would allow himself this one small joy to sooth the rot that festered and feasted on his harrowing grief. So he placed a tender kiss on her forehead—he imagined her eyes opening, her body rising from the table to greet him in the morning light—as if it would awaken her like in the fairytales. But she lay motionless beneath his lips. He sniffed, feeling wetness at his eyes again as he pressed his forehead to hers. He then left her, unable to look back.

Enjolras lay face-up on the wood floor of the Musain, the morning light like a mist through the window. He could smell iron, wet worms dripping from his nose that he knew to be blood. He struggled to move, his limbs twitching as if it would keep him alive. Grantaire was laying silent and still in his peripheral vision. In moments too, he will be just the same.

The dawn had come and death followed in its wake. Enjolras had been injured in the morning's battle. His forehead had been split, wet red gushing from the wound, and blood painted his fingers as he pressed against the hole at his side, his vision blurred, fighting against the pain, heaving for breath. The National Guard had overwhelmed them, slaughtered them. They had stormed the barricade and poured into the Musain, rushed up the stairs in a thunderstorm of pounding footsteps that shook the floorboards. The men in red and blue clamored, harsh words and orders that delirious Enjolras had not a care to comprehend as their rifles turned to aim at him and Grantaire, the last men of the revolution.

Yet, he was not afraid as he stared down an endless line of rifles. He was eerily calm as the seconds slowed, waiting for death to take him. It would be foolish to hope for Éponine to be waiting for him on the other side. So he settled for mild contentment beside the man he had so long despised, the man now, in his final moments, he could call a friend. And as they stood beside each other, unafraid, not alone, Enjolras felt himself turn utterly cold. Éponine, pale and bloody, brushed passed the soldiers, a rifle in her hand. His lips parted in horror. Beautiful Éponine, fierce Éponine, loyal, loving, ruthless Éponine, aimed her rifle at him, and when the trigger was pulled, it was her bullet that hit him first.

And now, here he lay on the Musain floor. He could not hear the footsteps that approached him, too far away in a single memory. She was alive in his arms, warm, safe. Her hand on his cheek was gentle and soothing. If only the memory had been a happy one. He yearned for her kiss.

Éponine stood above him now, bathed in scarlet and sunlit haze, the rifle at her side, her expression neutral, unfeeling. He reached to grip the hem of her dress, but his hand passed right through. He stared up at her, feeling blood flow up his throat. "Éppie," he rasped. She stared back at him, unfazed by his voice, by the name he had given her. She then pointed the rifle at him, and she was all he saw. Then the world flashed white, and Éponine and the world around her slowly faded. And as his vision collapsed to black, he thought he heard the calling of black birds. They too mourned him and his beloved Éponine.

The End

A/N: To be fair everyone, I warned you twice about how this story would be, in both chapters 1 and 2! But you all kept reading and I thank you for it! If you have any questions about anything in this story you can message me here or even at my tumblr account, decembersiris. I may or may not have an answer for you. ;)