-Interlude-

In which many months pass and many things change.

– One Month Later –

"Where are we going?" The words are whispered harshly in the dead of night as she drags him behind her. Their feet – his clad in expensive but worn boots while hers are ever-bare – make little sound as they proceed. They'll need to remain unobserved for this arrangement to work.

"Someplace they'll never look for or find us, Monsieur." She peers around the corner of a sagging building warily before continuing cautiously. "And but 'us' I obviously, very well mean 'you.'"

"I told you to stop calling me that," he says gruffly. They're words she's heard a thousand times before – whereas before they came from him they frequently came from the lips of another handsome bourgeois boy - but the habit is a hard one to shake. One look at his fine, bourgeois clothing reminds her that her place on the social ladder is far inferior to his own. She frequently is thankful that they are currently in hiding, lest he have the option to be embarrassed by her very presence and leave her on her own once more. The thought is an uncomfortable one, as loneliness is not a feeling she is overly fond of.

She doesn't tease him. No, he is much too fragile for that, after what happened and all. Instead, she ignores his words and settles for tugging on his hand more firmly, leading him though the abandoned streets of Paris.

They aren't friends per say, more extremely necessary crutches for which to help carry the burden of the others' pain, guilt, and depression. In the month since the rebellion – he hates (no, loathes) that word as it implies failure of impact. In this case the implication is accurate and it kills him inside. He attempts to push the swell of guilt in his abdomen at bay but fails – the pair had attempted to nurse each other back to health. They'd taken refuge in the convent hospital – the nuns had tactfully dodged the National Guard's crass interrogations as they searched for anyone involved in the rebellion. The ladies of God skillfully keep the pair's whereabouts a secret; whether or not the Lord would consider those particular lies to be sins, neither was sure. But, they were grateful nonetheless. – as he fought off crippling night terrors, a world of guilt, and depression while recovering from a two flesh wounds (one on his right shoulder and the other his left thigh) as well as a dislocated shoulder. Meanwhile she battled a raging infection that nearly killed her, undoubtedly more slowly and far more painfully than if the bullet that pieced her chest had been a mere inch to the left. Additionally, both try and mend the wounds left by abandoned love- him for a country he now knows he'll never see free, and she a boy who she'll never have.

As soon as the pair is fit to leave the hospital's care, they bid the nuns an abundance of thanks and depart into the chilling night breeze. Although still only early July, the ominous atmosphere that beclouds Paris seems to make everything a bit colder.

She subconsciously dodges a puddle as they round another corner and approach a rusted iron gate. "This is it," she breathes haggardly – her stamina is not nearly what it was only a month ago. Then again, a bullet to the chest will do that to you.

"Where is it, exactly?" he asks curtly, exhausted from illness and guilt and late night excursions though abandoned Parisians streets with a girl he is only just getting to understand.

"I told you," she sighs, half irritated, half relieved. "Someplace they'll never find us." She's rather proud that she'd thought of this. Then again, hiding in plain sight had always been a particular strength of hers. "Don't worry, no one lives here anymore."

He gives her an incredulous look before assessing the gate with contemplative eyes. The lock is beyond rusted after the two straight weeks of rain they'd encountered and he is able to unfasten it without much fuss. The gate swings open with a load creek and the young pair freezes, afraid of being discovered. After a moment of uninterruptedly tense silence though, he gives her the barest of smiles before gesturing though the gate. "After you, mademoiselle." She scoffs at him lightheartedly but doesn't comment.

After a beat, he follows behind her through the old rusted gate and into number fifty-five Rue Plumet.

-Two Month Later, Late September 1832-

He is somber, reflective, calm even. His freckled face is as lacking of emotion now as it has been for the past few months. Since the revolution, he hasn't much been up for merriment. He sees them everywhere: in the shadows, in the corner of his vision, in his dreams. They haunt him like the ghosts in the stories he heard as a much younger school boy. Perhaps they are actually there and not some figments of his traumatized, war-rattled and confused mind. He'd prefer that really. Then at least he'd know he isn't mental, hadn't gone mad from the sorrow, the grief, the guilt that bogs him down day in and day out.

They're gone. They're gone and dead, every last one of his friends, his brothers. They're gone and it's his fault. He wasn't there to help them, to save them. No, he'd been off being treated by some top class doctor for a wound that probably wouldn't have killed him anyway, that he'd received because he was distracted. He hadn't been paying attention, been shot in the side because all he could think about was her. Her, her, her and how she was gone. She was gone and never coming back and he missed her already. She wasn't just his friend; she was his everything; his comforter, his comic relief, his earthly reminder to keep his feet on the ground, his best, closest, dearest friend Éponine. And she was gone; she was dead. And it was his fault. She jumped in front of a bullet to save him, he was always her biggest concern, her main priority and he didn't even see it.

He blames her, he thinks. If she hadn't died he wouldn't have been distracted. If he hadn't been distracted he wouldn't have been shot. If he hadn't have been shot he would have been there to help his friends. If he had been there to help his friends they wouldn't be dead now. But, of course that's ridiculous. Who's to say that he wouldn't have still been distracted if she hadn't have died? And, he's not vain enough to think that he's important enough to have made much of a difference had he not been shot anyway. No, it's not her fault but he needs to be mad at her. His need to feel mad at this lovely dead girl that meant the world to him in life, because being mad at her is easier than feeling guilty for the deaths of his friends, including hers. Including his Ponine.

And then there's her confession. It was unspoken but perhaps he had always know; perhaps he had always known and was simply too afraid to acknowledge it. 'It' being her love for him, of course. The thought sends sharp pains through his chest. He knew. Of course he knew how she felt. He wasn't as completely oblivious as his friends seemed to think and Éponine was never as subtle as she thought she was. No, there is no doubt that he had known. But he did not love her. Did he? Of course he did; he loved her. Was he in love with her? Guilt blooms in his chest when he realizes that he has no immediate answer to that question. It is neither a definite yes nor no. He cared for her very much, obviously. She made him laugh and questioned his words and never took anything he said lying down. She was anything but passive and that made him smile. He loved her high spirits and fierce persona. There was that word again: love. Yes, perhaps he had loved Éponine a bit. But she was gone now and he had Cosette.

He loves Cosette. There is no question there and, if there is, the answer is a definite yes. He loves her very much. She is an angel: gentle and sweet and caring and understanding and comforting and so many wonderful characteristics that made his heart soar upon thought of his beloved. Yes, he loves Cosette. But, he is so plagued by guilt; not only for his friends but for Éponine as well. Sometimes he thinks that his guilt is a hindrance to his love for his Cosette. When he is happy for even a moment, he thinks of them, his dear friends and their horrid deaths. When he leans in to embrace his beloved, it is Éponine's face, bloodied and tear-stained that swims across his vision. He cannot escape his friends and his guilt.

With a tired sigh he rubs his eyes and drops his head against the back of the wingback chair. It has been months, three whole months of never-ending fatigue and sorrow. He barely sleeps and when he does he is plagued by them, all of them; images of their death and how he couldn't save them. He misses them, all of his wonderful friends that so effortlessly make him happy-made him happy. His brow creases as the constant throbbing in his temples worsens.

He was simultaneously utterly alone and perversely smothered all at once here in this big house that suffocates him. They are in Calais, days from Paris and lifetimes away from his past. Still though, he can't escape it. Following their rather hasty engagement, Cosette thought it best that Marius recuperate from his injuries in a low-stress, quiet place. And so, they traveled by carriage to one of Marius' many childhood estates – a lovely, well-kept manor right on the coast of the sea – for a pre-wedding/post-failed revolution recuperation/vacation. Marius can't help but think that the idea is a bit absurd but his Cosette deemed it important and so they came.

While he cares for Cosette, loves her, she is a difficult person to get accommodate oneself to. She is kind and ever-loving but, he thinks, perhaps that is part of the problem. She does not understand: she has never faced loss other than that of her birth parents, which she cannot remember. So, she does not know how to comfort him, for which, of course, he cannot blame her. She doesn't know how to comfort him either. Still, she is always there. Sometimes it is a blessing as he does not think he could handle his thoughts on his own but, other times – most times – he feels suffocated. She sweetly is always at his beck and call, for which he is grateful but sometimes – although they scare him – he just needs to be alone with his thoughts.

She sits in a wooden rocking chair in the corner across from him, embroidering something or other and humming under her breath. It is a tune that, although he can't put his finger on, plagues Marius' mind. He swears he has heard it before but whenever he thinks he has pinpointed the memories- no, there it goes again.

He lets out another exhausted sigh and Cosette looks up from her needlepoint to observe him worriedly. He scrubs a hand down his face and gives her a tired smile as best he can. She seems to be satisfied with this and returns his smile charmingly before returning to her task. Marius takes the opportunity to observe his soon-to-be bride. She is beautiful. Regal even, what with her golden hair and aristocratic features and round face. Her curling eyelashes frame her immaculately blue eyes lovingly and her lips and cheeks are ever-pink. Her face is kind and relaxed as she focuses on her chore enthusiastically. She is content.

This brings Marius pause though. He is unsure as to why but something about her unabashed enjoyment of such a mundane task causes him to falter. Cosette will be the perfect, loving, passive wife. She will care for him and bear his children and grow even more elegant with age and continue to smile at him lovingly, submissively for years to come until God welcomes her into His heavenly home. Yes, she will be a lovely bride, he thinks. He can't help but smile at her overwhelming gentleness. She is like an angel sent from the Lord. But still, something plagues his mind. He wishes he count place his hesitance.

He is drawn from his musings by Cosette's cherubic voice. "Marius, dear, you're certain everything is alright?"

He smiles at her lovingly because he loves her. Yes, he does. "Yes, love. I'm certain, just a bit distracted at the moment."

"Are you sure?" Marius bristles minutely. She's pushing, she's aware, like she frequently does when she thinks that he is being too closed-off. But really, how does he expect them to marry when he does not share all of his thoughts with her?

"Quite sure, love. No need to worry."

"I'll have Helen fix you a cup of tea. Perhaps it will calm your nerves." She rises from her chair and places her needlepoint on the side table waiting there.

"There's no need, dear. Really, no need to trouble yourself." He is subconsciously gripping the arm of his chair a bit too tightly.

"It's no trouble, Marius." Her smile is so achingly sweet and innocent and loving that he is forced to relent. "Honestly." And with that she is off in search of the housemaid without a backwards glace. Marius sighs once more.

- 2 Weeks Later -

When the letter comes Marius can't help but feel a bit relieved. He immediately feels wretched for seeing Cosette's father's misfortunes as an excuse to spend less time with his daughter but God, he can't breathe in this Godforsaken house anymore. He misses Paris and the Café and his friends-

Well perhaps only one of those things can be remedied.

So, when Cosette rushes out in a flurry of frazzled anxiety and acute worry to find him staring out into the waves of La Manche, his heart swells momentarily in something akin to fondness and understanding. The moment of passing satisfaction at his own personal gain in the matter comes and goes in the blink of an eye at the notice of Cosette's frightened features. Her father is ill and that is terrifying for her, Marius knows. Apart from himself, this is the only person she cares about – loves – in the world. The prospect of him being taken away is a chilling one, Marius knows all too well, unfortunately.

So, they pack up their belongings, bid the house staff goodbye, and head back to Paris. Marius briefly thinks he might miss the calming sea breeze as the fiacre pulls away from the now locked estate gates but quickly shakes it off. No, he misses Paris. He misses his home and longs for the claustrophobic, dense air of the Parisian streets.

At least that would be familiar.

The journey is a trying one. They travel for a few weeks and their time together is both uneventful and wearisome, what with his Cosette's incessant worrying. He can't blame her though; he is forced to constantly remind himself. He himself is quite fond of Cosette's father, a gentle man he had the pleasure of properly acquainting himself with during his, Marius', brief recovery following the rebellion; for some reason the man seems to have some sort of significant importance to him, but he can't place it. He seems to be unable to place a lot of things lately.

When they finally arrive home Cosette is out of the carriage before it is even fully stopped, leaving Marius and the coachman to unload their two months' worth of luggage.

Following the rebellion, Marius's grandfather, Monsieur Gillenormand was gracious enough to allow Marius back into his home. The old man was, if not a bit smug, ecstatic to have his grandson home once more, convinced that the death of his friends and a bullet just above is right knee (a few inches south and he'd have serious problems walking for the rest of his life) was enough to knock any liberal nonsense from his mind straight away. Of course, the arrival of Cosette and her father was more than enough to send Monsieur Gillenormand into a pleasant frenzy. Had it been proper, Marius was half sure his grandfather would plan the wedding himself. Strangely enough, Monsieur Gillenormand and Monsieur Fauchelevent got on wonderfully straight off, both sharing a love of gardening and, of course, the Holy Father. So, it is with that comfort that when Marius and Cosette depart for Calais, Monsieur Fauchelevent remains behind.

After he and the coachman unload the last of the luggage, Marius follows his beloved into the house and up the spiraling staircase to her father's quarters. The sight he comes to is a bit of a heartbreaking one. Other than the dark shadows under his eyes, Monsieur Fauchelevent does not appear to be in much of a state; in fact the old man is sitting up and smiling. No, it is Cosette that sends a twinge of sadness through him. She is crying, her cheeks splotchy and her eyes rimmed with red. His Cosette has always been a fragile one, caring much too deeply for those around her to the point that even something that should cause only the slightest of worry sends her reeling with concern. Her father is patting her hair lovingly and insisting that, despite Monsieur Gillenormand's distraught letter, presently, he is feeling quite well. He taps Cosette's nose affectionately and requests she accompany him on a brief walk through the gardens as it will be one of their last opportunities before the cold really starts to set in. Cosette laughs minutely before agreeing.

The sound sets Marius at peace if only for a moment.

- One Month Later –

He wakes up on the ground. He is surrounded by a pool of blood but it is not his own. How he knows this, he is unsure. Perhaps it is, because the streets are running with it, rivers of scarlet dribbling through the cracks in the uneven cobblestone.

He pushes himself up on his forearms, feeling the weightiness of his head. He feels exhausted but otherwise fine. Slowly, he rises to his feet. There is a tear in his trousers just above his right knee, blood surrounding the hole but, he notices, there is no pain, nor is there a hole there in his flesh. This puzzles him momentarily before something catches his eyes.

In the soft June breeze a red revolutionary flag flutters gently from the second story window of the Café Musain. This causes his to pause. The bright sunlight glints off of the broken glass in the streets as he turns to observe his surroundings. He is at the barricade. Or rather, what used to be the barricade. The street is littered with broken furniture and it reeks of blood. The scent is enough to make him gag though there are no bodies, no corpses of his beloved friends. This only serves to puzzle him further.

With a furrowed brow he enters the café and takes a look around. Apart from the obvious bullet holes imbedded in various places, blood smears on the walls, and a noticeable hole in the ceiling, the café seems altogether abandoned. With bated breath he climbs the busted staircase to the top level. What he finds there is enough to nearly send him tumbling down the stairs.

There, in what remains of the Society of Les Amis de L'ABC's meeting place is the society themselves, his friends. The sight is morbid: they sit in the chairs crowding the café, their heads rested against the wood of the tables. Their eyes are closed in death but they don't appear to simply be asleep, as everyone seems to speak of death as looking. No, even in death they look afraid. They mouths are closed and their faces peaceful but he can feel the fear, it is tangible in the room.

The wretched sob that claws its way from his throat is inhuman. His chest feels constricted and his eyes are leaking profusely. Hesitantly, he approaches his friends one at a time. Joly and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Jehan and Feuilly and Bahorel and Grantaire and Lesgle and Bossuet. They are all there, every last one. When he finally comes to stand in front of their fearless leader he cries out. Enjolras is there but his eyes are not closed. No, they are open and blinking up at him painfully. His mouth is open in a silent scream and blood soaks his body. His eyes are pleading and strained, begging Marius for - he doesn't know what. Tears begin to leak from the revolutionary's eyes and that sends Marius running. He runs like a coward, down the steps and out of the café and away from the barricade. He only makes it so far, however, before he hears it.

Humming.

At first it's quiet, barely perceptible and coming from behind him. He nearly ignores it before the familiarity of the tune strikes him. It's that song, the one he hears Cosette sing under her breath, the one he could never place. Suddenly, it all comes rushing back to him: Comfortable walks down sun-soaked Parisian streets with a dirt-smudged girl. It is melancholy and soft but he had never failed to hear her hum the simple notes.

Éponine.

He whirls around, trying to place the sound. In the corner of his vision he catches a glimpse of tangled brown hair disappear around a tight corner and he's off to follow it without a second thought. He calls for her. He knows it's her. There is no doubt in his mind. Éponine. Her name rings through the still air like a bell.

He follows her for a good while, occasionally catching a hint or two of her tattered skirt fluttering around a corner, or noticing that the humming seems to be coming from nearer than before. Finally, he comes to a stop outside of an all too familiar residence: number fifty-five Rue Plumet. The gate to the garden is wide open and he can see her inside.

She stands amidst the blooming flowers looking radiant despite her haggard appearance. "Ponine," he breathes her name once more before boldly stepping through the open gate. He approaches her with confidence, eager to pull her close, feel that she is alive. She stares up at him almost blankly; her humming has stopped. Aside from a few birdsongs here and there, the air is completely still. Just as he reaches out for her though, she smirks at him somewhat cheekily before disappearing altogether.

"Éponine!" he cries, spinning frantically and trying to catch a glimpse of the teasing girl that once again has managed to slip right through his fingers. He is frantic, hands gripping his hair fiercely as he attempts to ignore the tears that had never stopped falling.

The humming starts again.

His spins around in a circle once more, desperate for even one more glance of his dear friend, but she is nowhere to be found. Instead, the humming seems to be coming from everywhere all at once, resonating in the very air that is suffocating him. It is driving him mad!

The voice morphs then from Éponine's rich one to something higher, lighter, cherubic. He collapse onto the stone back behind him and cradles his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth trying to rid the sound altogether.

It doesn't work.

The humming only gets louder until in consumes him and he is sent jerking to the ground.

When he awakes this time the humming is still there but coming from across the room. He lifts his head from the soft pillow to see Cosette bustling about near the dresser. Shaking the memory of his dream off and wiping the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, Marius asses his bride- to-be. He can't help but smile at her fondly. Whereas in Calais he felt smothered, claustrophobic even, now, he usually just feels alone.

Cosette is almost always busy tending to her father, whose health, although not declining, has yet to improve at all. Marius spends copious amounts of time on his own. Perhaps in the months prior he would not have minded, even encouraged it; now though, he finds himself too frequently thinking on memories that should be of a fond nature, but essentially only serve to upset him, bog him down with heaping amounts of guilt.

"Good morning, love," he calls to his beloved and Cosette startles, clearly unaware that he had awoken. After retaining her composure she smiles over at him sweetly.

"It's hardly morning anymore, dear; almost noon." She looks tired. The circles under her eyes are deep with exhaustion and stress from worrying over her father too much, and her hair is slightly askew. He's sure his physical appearance is less than pleasant as well.

"Is it now?" He is shocked; he has never slept so late in his life. He is only too aware that his voice is strained and soft, the recollection of his nightmare still fresh in his mind. It only goes to prove the extent of Cosette's preoccupation as she takes hardly any notice to his sweat-dampened skin and nightshirt. Normally this would send his poor betrothed into a state as she always seems to hover and worry over the smallest of things. He does not begrudge her this however, as he knows that her relationship with her father is a strong one, however weakened it might seem due to Monsieur Fauchelevent's illness – the doctors (the best money could pay for, obviously) cannot seem to pinpoint the problem, stating that perhaps Monsieur Fauchelevent is simply losing his will. Of course, words like these only serve to send his Cosette into more of a panic, and she spends the majority of her time by her father's side.

Whereas in Calais Marius felt smothered, here, in his childhood home, he felt lonely, abandoned. He misses Cosette and the casual time they spent together in the north. He misses comfortable, lazy days and quiet nights. He has those now, of course, just minus the company of his future bride and they are, clearly, far less pleasant.

Perhaps, he sometimes thinks, he misses not so much her company, but company in general. Without her by his side there is no distraction, nothing to hide him from wandering through the death-drenched labyrinth that is his mind. Without her pink-tinted cheeks and shining smile there is nothing to shield him from his memories, nothing to blanket him from his guilt. He needs her – not so much to love and him and make him happy, but to protect him.

It is times of the likes of these that he misses his friends. Of course, he misses them always but when he is forced into the depths of his memory by nothing more than his loneliness his craving for their brotherhood only worsens. He thinks – and when the thought flashes through his mind, for however brief a time, he feels hopelessly wretched – that perhaps love isn't enough for him. Because he loves Cosette; he loves her but he can't help feel incomplete. He needs something more than love – he needs companionship.

Of course these desires are futile. His friends are dead and gone and not coming back. He should just move on. He should shoulder his guilt and carry on with his life, begin a new one with his Cosette by his side and be happy. He jerks suddenly, trying desperately to blink away the images of another girl, bloody and broken and dying in his arms, a girl that had whispered those words to him some months ago, her last words. Yes, he had promised her, he had promised Éponine that he would be happy. And so he would.

He just needed closure.

"Yes. Your grandfather wanted to wake you but I said that you needed your rest." He is brought back to the present as Cosette speaks once more. "Though it is nearly time for luncheon and I do agree with him that it's about time you got up." She shoots him a fond yet weary smile before picking up her rosary beads from the dresser and making to leave the room. "Now I'm going to visit with my father for a bit. I'll see you in the dining room in a half hour."

"Cosette wait," he calls to her, sitting up more fully against the pillows.

She turns towards him once again, fiddling with the beads in her hands nervously. Marius can see that she is itching to be by her father's side once more. "Yes?" she answers him sweetly nonetheless.

"Won't you come sit by me for but a moment? There's something I'd like to discuss with you." He reaches his hand out, hoping the gesture seems comforting rather than demanding. She approaches readily though and sits on the edge of the bed, taking his outstretched hand.

"Is something the matter?" She looks worried and frightened, as if one more thing gone wrong could simply break her all together. She looks fragile and innocent and Marius is overcome with a rush of affection for the girl.

"No, nothing's the matter. I just wanted to ask you something." He looks to her for a response but she simply stares back at him unguardedly, so he continues. "I was thinking about taking a trip, just back to the city. I'd only be gone for a few days but there are some things that I need to tie up before I can fully move on after-" he falters here, surprised when he feels the familiar lump of sadness accumulate in his throat. "After what happened," he finishes weakly.

She looks at him understandingly and rubs her thumb over the back of his hand in comfort. "I think that'd be fine," she answers finally, giving him a soft smile. "I believe you could use the closure. When we move on into our new life together I don't want you to have any doubts or regrets, dear. Take what time you need."

He smiles up at her gratefully before swooping in to kiss her cheek. "Thank you, my love. I will leave tomorrow, I think. Why don't you take the time to spend with your father? You should have some time together without having to worry of entertaining me."

"Yes, I think I will," she agrees. "Speaking of which, I should really be getting back to him." He nods at her encouragingly and, with that she makes her departure.

When he is once again alone with his thoughts, he can't help but smile just a bit. He can feel the slight amount of promise in the air. It fills his with a hope he hasn't felt in many months.

Be happy, Éponine had told him. Well, this was the first step.

- The Next Day-

The air is bitter as he approaches the graveyard. The sun shines brightly, contrasting sharply with his somber mood but there is a definite chill to the air proving that autumn has set in. The leaves around him have begun to change and a few of them crinkle under his feet as he approaches her grave.

She brought him here once; a few years ago. She'd brought him here to meet her sister and he remembers it clear as day: the bright May sunshine, the few stray tears that leaked down her cheeks at the memories juxtaposed by the smile that graced her face at the fond memories she recalled of her sister, and the youngest Thénardier daughter's name spelled out in the rough stone. Yes, he remembers it quite clearly.

Now though, everything is blurry – though that may be from the tears he didn't realize he was crying. How though, he wonders, can something in the present be more blurry than a distant memory of the past? He can't find the answer but all he knows is that everything is different now. Though the sun is shining the air is cold. He is no longer a fresh-faced student filled with dreams and aspirations, but a confused young man with a world of guilt on his shoulders. And, now instead of just one name there on the Thénardier stone there are three.

Azelma Thénardier

Gavroche Thénardier

Éponine Thénardier

The last name makes his heart stutter a bit. There she is. There's his beloved Ponine right underneath his feet. The thought terrifies him more than it should. He knows she's dead, felt the life leave her as he cradled her in his arms, but it's strange to contemplate nonetheless. She's dead, when people die they are buried; but yet, the thought of her body lying there beneath his feet in daunting, horrifying even.

He notices something odd then: there are no years to mark their dates of death and birth, and it appears that Gavroche and Ponine's names were added in as an afterthought, the font messy and crooked. The stone is plain and dirty, the plot not kept up in the least. Yet there lying next to the stone is a bouquet of wildflowers. They are dead, presumably having been laid there weeks before but there nonetheless. This confuses him. Éponine was a street rat and her family that of the same name. Her siblings were dead, her parents who knows where, and she had no friends to speak of apart from Les Amis. Who would take the time to lay down flowers on the Thénardier children's grave?

"Surprisin', ain't it?" The voice startles him so violently that had the scene not been so bleak it might have been comical. "I was surprised too when 'e came, lousy fool." Standing beside him now is Madame Thénardier herself. Her face is stoic and her appearance unkempt but her aura is defeated visibly. She appears older than the last time he saw her. He'd never formally made her acquaintance, only brief glances here and there through the Thénardier home's door as he picked up Ponine for their daily walks. But, even so, he can see how much she has morphed over the past months. Her skin is even more sagging and soot-covered than he remembers her hair a bit greyer, her frown a bit deeper.

He clears his throat but says nothing to acknowledge her abrupt appearance: quickness and lightness of footing was apparently a trait passed through family. "Who," he asks, his voice just a bit strained from his tears.

"Montparnasse." She practically spits the name. Then, though, he voice is back to nonchalant. "'e was a rodent an' a thief an' a killer but 'e always did 'ave a soft spot for my Ponine." Marius can see her jaw clench firmly as she looks down at the three names sharing a gravestone. The pair remains in silence for some odd minutes, until Marius can feel the tears on his skin dry and tighten.

"How did you know?" He finally asks. The question is vague but she knows exactly what he's asking. How did you know that they were dead? How did you know you'd become the mother of dead children. Surprisingly, he feels no animosity towards the Madame. He is thankful for this, for he would want to mar his final counter with Éponine with memories of cruel words to her mére.

"I jus' did." Her reply is nearly a whisper, broken against the wind. "Once I 'eard 'bout the uprising, I could just feel 'em gone. I jus' knew." Her voice breaks then as she begins to cry. For as many superb acting skills as he knows she carries, she is not trying very hard to cover her grief. But perhaps that is the point. These are her children, her babies buried right there under her feet. She has nothing left and she knows it. What else has she to lose by crying in front of this bourgeois boy?

"I'm sorry, Madame." And he is. He is sorry that she was forced to raise her children under unjust circumstance, sorry that her life was undoubtedly cold and unpleasant and draining, sorry that her family is dead. After all, it was people like her that Les Amis were fighting for. No matter how corrupt her family was, she was a part of the l'abaisse.

"I don't want your pity," she snarls fiercely. In that moment she reminds him so much of Éponine it is physically painful; clearly Ponine inherited her take-no-charity mentality. "I jus'-" her voice clogs with tears once more. "I know I was a shit mother but help me God if I didn't love all of 'em." She wipes her tears away furiously. "I loved 'em and now they're dead, the lot of 'em and I'm on my own."

"What of your husband, Madame?"

The laugh she releases is so full of resentment he nearly shudders. "Gone. Off to America or somewhere. Said 'e couldn't afford to feed me, couldn't afford to brin' me along. So 'e up and left me 'ere to fen' for myself, the bastard." She sounds hopeless now and it breaks his heart a bit. He'd seen her love for her daughter, however unconventional it may have seemed. He'd heard her warn Ponine against her father, seen her sneak the girl a bit of bread. Yes, he had no doubt that Madame Thénardier loved her children, she was simply too afraid to save them.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"What I say 'bout pity, boy?" Her voice is far less vicious now. She seems to be losing her fight. They fall back into a civil sort of silence for a bit before she once again breaks it. "You knew my son?" Her eyebrow is perched and she looks mildly hopeful.

"Yes, Madame. He was a good boy. Very brave." He can only speak the highest of praises for the young gamin. The Madame scoffs.

"Always knew tha' boy was trouble. After 'Zelma died I knew it was only a matter of time 'fore my husban' ran 'im off. I was glad to see 'im go though. 'e deserved better; they all did. 'specailly Ponine. She was such a good girl. Bit of a brat, but a good girl at heart, always puttin' everybody else's happiness 'fore 'er own."

Marius can only nod in agreement. He knows all too well how self-sacrificing Ponine had been, she had, after all, led him to his Cosette. Flashes of her broken and bloody body race through his mind and he is forced to wipe fresh tears from his eyes. Yes, she was a good girl at heart.

"You made 'er 'appy, you know," she says suddenly. "She loved you an' you made 'er 'appy. I could see it on 'er face."

Marius shakes his head desperately, attempting to swallow the sudden lump of guilt in his throat. "Please don't say that." His voice is thick with tears. "Just please-"

"Why not? 'S true."

"No, it isn't. I broke her heart. She loved me and I didn't see it and then I killed her. I broke her heart and I killed her."

"If thas' what you think then you're a bloody fool."

"What?" he asks dumbfounded, looking up from his tear-soaked hands.

"Ponine's life was terrible. 'er father was cruel to 'er, 'er sister was dead, an' she was forced to degrade 'erself to a petty thief simply to get by. You were the one bright spot in 'er life." Marius squeezes his eyes shut; at her words, his chest constricts. "You made 'er smile an' laugh an' for that I am grateful to you. You made 'er life a little less miserable. She needed you an' you were there for 'er 'til the very end. You were a good friend an' she was 'appy with what affection you gave 'er. She loved you an' you were there for 'er. Thas' all she would 'ave asked for."

Marius feels something being pressed into his hands then. He opens his eyes to find Éponine's blue scarf clutched in his hands. The edge is frayed just a tiny bit but the embroidery is still intact. He remembers the day he had gifted her with the article, how she had smiled, how she had teased. The fabric still smells a bit like her and his heart warms. "Wait!" he calls out; the Madame had already begun her climb up the hill. "Where did you get this?" he asks in amazement.

"She liked to 'ide it under 'er bed, didn't want 'er father to sell it."

"Smart girl," he smiles up at her.

"Yes, indeed." Madame Thénardier smirks down towards him and adjusts her threadbare cloak around her shoulders. Marius sees her shudder a bit against the cold breeze and he is suddenly hit by a wave of concern for the woman.

"Where will you go, Madame?"

She shrugs. "I figured I'd go fin' work in Toulouse. I 'ear 'is nice down there." The idea of a Thénardier having honest work is unheard of, it make Maris smile. He scrambles to pull a few rumpled bills from his picket, pressing them into the Madame's shaking hands.

"For your travels," he says simply. She stares down at the gift in wonder. Marius momentarily thinks that she is going to refuse, but then she is smiling up at him, wiping one final tear from her eye.

In true Thénardier fashion she doesn't thank him, simply nods once and then disappears over the hill.

Marius turns back to the grave solemnly. His tears have stopped and he stoops down to place his hand on the cold, flat stone. He places a single flower on the grave and whispers a few final words before rising, "Goodbye Ponine." He departs.

- That Night -

They don't discuss Marius; it is an unspoken rule. They talk about the other Amis, laugh and share tales of their friends' wild adventures. It is always a good time before they realize that all of their friends are dead and they fall back into a sort of quite depression.

They aren't friends per say, more like lifeboats. They cling to each other when the memories are too much or the nightmares are too dreadful. They aren't friends but they need each other; they are all the other has.

And so they fall into a comfortable rhythm. They lock themselves away inside the walls of number fifty-five Rue Plumet. It was abandoned months ago, Éponine knows for certain. And so they keep the shade closed and the doors locked and keep to the inner rooms where the lights from their candles can't be seen by any passerby.

She reads and hums and thinks but, more times than not that last one is dangerous. She also cooks. She is dreadful at it but still better than him. So she cooks.

It has been four months. Four months of uneventful hiding, from the law and from the past. With all of this extra time he mind wanders far more frequently than she would like. She thinks about her sister and brother, her parents, Montparnasse, her friends. She worries about Enjolras but knows that there is nothing to be done there. And she thinks about Marius. A lot. By now she has given up on any romantic notion that he will come back to her. He thinks her dead and even if he didn't, he doesn't love her. Éponine is pleased to find that the thought doesn't send as sharp of a pain through her chest anymore. Perhaps she is moving on. Perhaps all she needed was closure – complete, resolute proof that there was no chance, an excuse for her to let go of her girlish fantasies and move on. Her 'death' was that excuse. And she feels good. Well, as good as someone with a shattered heart and lonely soul can feel. But still, she moves on. It is easier said than done but day by day she feels herself grow just a bit stronger. She is proud of herself and soldiers on.

Meanwhile, he broods and thinks and plans. He pours over papers and charts, desperate to discover where he went wrong, desperate to know why his friends were forced to make their sacrifices, why they hadn't emerged victorious from the ashes of a New France.

Éponine could tell him why. She knows where he went wrong and just doesn't have the heart to tell him: The people won't rise, they will never rise. Yes, there may be a few brave souls like Enjolras and Les Amis but in the end, the people are frightened. They live in fear of further repression. They would rather hope for change than risk further subjugation by setting forth into action to achieve it. No, it is not where Enjolras went wrong, Éponine knows. It is that the citizens refuse to cross the line, refuse to rise up and take their rightful places as people of France instead of slaves of it. It is the people's failure, not Enjolras'.

Enjolras mutters into his charts, sipping his tea broodingly and running his fingers through his crazed hair. Éponine sighs from the doorway, concerned for her not-quite-friend. She briefly considers trying to console him, but instantly knows better. He won't accept her comfort during the day just as she won't accept his. They each only accept the other's comfort when they are at their most vulnerable. At night when they each lurch harshly from their respective death-drenched dreams, simply words of "you're awake" and "I'm here" are enough. Words, after all, are something they've both always excelled at.

"Enjolras?" she calls from the doorway, twisting the ends of her hair between her fingers. He only grunts in response. "I'm going on a supplies run. I'll be back within the hour, okay?"

"Be careful," he mumbles as she reaches for the door and disappears into the darkness of night.

The streets are nearly abandoned apart from a few whores looking for words and a handful of drunkards looking to buy. She slips easily beneath the shadows, always has. The walk to the Café Musain is quiet and uneventful. She has nothing to fear now: her father is gone, Montparnasse is gone, and anyone who knew of her by reputation thinks she's dead. She is safe here in the dark, at least for the time being.

When she reaches the café she stops briefly to examine the place where the barricade once stood, where her friends all died, where Enjolras almost died, where she almost died. She shudders at the memory before ducking around to the back entrance of the café to pick up the supplies left out for her by Madame Damery. The kind old woman who owns the café with her husband had always been a supporter of Les Amis cause, allowing them to host their meetings in her place of business. After the fall of the barricade, when she had found Éponine poking around her trash following hers and Enjolras' discharge from the convent hospital, she had insisted that Éponine let her supply the pair with food. Once a week for the past four months the woman has kept her word, leaving out a crate of fruit and bread, some meat, wine, fresh candles, and occasionally some of her children's old clothing or blankets. Sometimes the woman meets Éponine at the back door to chat, for which Éponine is grateful. She misses regular conversation. Although she and Enjolras frequently have moments of camaraderie, she does miss good female company. Today though, the older woman is decidedly absent. Éponine picks up the crate of goods before poking her head in the back door to wave her thanks to the Madame.

The bar is crowded and full of life, so different from what it beheld only a few months prior. Candles burn in the windows and the room is full of laughter and cheer. Éponine scans the room briefly, looking for the Madame and nearly drops her crate of supplies. There, sitting at the bar drinking from a bottle is Monsieur Marius.

He looks well, if not a bit forlorn and tiresome. Over the past months as Éponine has come to accept the terms of hers and Marius' not-relationship, the details of his features, she'd found, have gone out of focus. Whereas before the uprising she could place each one of his freckles perfectly from memory, over time even the exact shape of his face had gone a bit blurry as she had struggled to remember all of the fine details of him. But, seeing him sitting there, every pleasant memory she had even shared with him comes swooping back. A painful zing shoots through her chest like a bullet from a gun and she stumbles back.

She doesn't know what she feels. Happy, confused, scared, guilty, nervous, excited, heartbroken? All of the above? She simply cannot pinpoint the emotion she is feeling and so she clutches the crate closer to her chest and stumbles down the dark street back towards home. If there is one thing she is sure of though, it is that she's not ready to see him yet. She's not ready to question how much she loves him and her devotion to him and does he love her or not and please God, let him still love me. No, she's not ready to think about that, not ready to face him.

She's not sure she ever will be.

Hello!

First off I would like to apologize for the obscenely long wait period. I've been extremely busy as of late and haven't had time to write. On top of that, this chapter was a huge struggle for me. I knew where I wanted to go with the characters but wasn't sure how to express it. I hope I conveyed what I wanted to convey appropriately and interestingly enough.

Next, thank you very much to all of you who have favorited/commented/reviewed/PM'd/left kudos/etc. Every single one of them makes my day and I can't express my gratitude enough. Please continue to do so as they inspire me to write faster!

Also, as you hopefully would suspect from this story, Marius has confusing feelings for Cosette. Yes he loves her but perhaps not for all of the right reasons. I hope I appropriately conveyed his perplexing feelings towards her in this chapter.

Finally and most importantly, I think that it is only fair to warn you all that my intentions for this story have changed. Originally, my plan was for this fic to be romance-based. Recently, however, I have done a LOT of deep thinking as to the development I wish all of the characters to go through and where I want them to end up at the end of all this. With that in mind I have decided to stick to the original theme of Les Misérables, which is not one of romance but rather a theme of redemption. Over the last few weeks I have examined the Marius/Éponine relationship and come to a realization that I'm not sure you will all be pleased with: Éponine is much more than just some love-struck, boy-obsessed fangirl and therefor would naturally want (and quite frankly deserves) better than to go back to a man who had, however unintentionally, treated her as a means to achieve an ends. Please don't get me wrong, I do not dislike Marius. He fell in love with Cosette and that, despite any of us shippers' wishes otherwise, can't be helped, nor should it be. Love is a natural occurrence that we as humans don't choose. It should not have to be justified or defended simply because many of us can relate to Éponine's experiences of unrequited love. Originally my intention had always been to somehow work around the admittedly difficult blockades that prevent a romanticized Marius/Éponine relationship, as well as to give Cosette a, however bittersweet, realistic ending that involved her moving on in relative happiness without Marius, choosing to ignore the inevitably disastrous repercussions that would come naturally had I made Marius/Éponine endgame in this story. I have always disliked that shippers (particularly Marius/Éponine shippers – don't be offended, I was like you too once) have made Cosette out as a villain simply because she "got in the way" of their ship. I personally believe that Cosette deserves all of the happiness in the world, as do all of the characters in Les Mis. However, originally my motivation to make my – at the time – ship work clouded my judgment. I have sense come to my senses and realized a few things.

First, and please don't be offended, the Marius/Éponine ship would never work. I know, it's upsetting, even still to me but, I have thought about this a great deal and am sticking to my guns. Despite his good intentions and undoubted fondness for Ponine, Marius treated her as a carrier pigeon and used her devotion to him, in order to achieve a relationship with Cosette. I do not necessarily blame as, to quote Meg from Hercules, "people always do crazy things when they're in love" – which I agree with wholeheartedly – but, that does not, however, justify his exploitation of her "services." I know that Éponine was aware of this and fully had the ability to say no and, quite frankly, I think this is part of the problem that she didn't. If Marius and Éponine were to have a romantic relationship, it wouldn't be much of a relationship at all. She would continue to follow him around and do his bidding in every effort to please him. She would have no active role in the "relationship" which is a fault of both parties.

Secondly, Éponine is a strong character! Think about it: (at least in this fic) she was raised in an abusive home; lost both of her sibling is some form or the other; was forced to earn her keep through demeaning means; has parents that, quite frankly, couldn't care less as far as she could see; watched the man she was "in love" with love another woman (a childhood "nemesis" if you will, nonetheless); sacrificed her life to save someone that exploited her feelings in order to fulfill his own emotional needs; and suffered through the deaths of many of her friends. She deserves much, much better than the hand she has been dealt. And, being the strong-headed woman that she is – in both this fic and the brick (remember this is not only a girl who stands up to her abusive father and his gang, but also defends her dreams of love and happiness despite many people's insistence and concrete evidence stating that their achievement is ludicrous) – Éponine would undoubtedly realize this. Therefore, I can't imagine her simply welcoming Marius back into her waiting arms after the way she was hurt.

With all of that being said I have chosen to focus on a more realistic ending to this story. Yes, as explained in this chapter, Marius loves both Cosette and Éponine in different ways and for different reasons. In the end he will be forced to make a choice that would not be easy for anyone, especially someone who has lost so many people already in his life already and is now being forced will choose another to lose. However, my main goal now is to focus on the theme of redemption and forgiveness. Patching up Marius and Éponine's beyond-damaged relationship will be no easy feat and, in the end, this story is going to focus on that struggle: Marius' struggle to make a decision that will shape the rest of his life and Éponine's struggle forgive a man that broke her heart.

I hope that clears some things up and isn't too disappointing for many of you. Please feel free to PM me if you have any comments/questions/concerns.