.

Like the Music of Angels

.~*~*~*~.

Word Count: 5,544

Epilogue

June 7

When Cosette got word of what had happened to Marius, she fell into a complete panic. The carriage ride to his grandfather's home was spent by Papa trying to calm her down, better explaining the situation to her (and details of Marius' condition) with as much patience as possible, but it did little to settle her anxiety. Upon arriving at the Baron Gillenormand's grand house, she demanded of the maid who answered the door where young monsieur Marius was resting, and once she'd received startled instructions, she tore past the woman and up the stairs to Marius' chambers. She did not stop running until she'd reached his bedroom door, which was ajar. Breathless, she stumbled to a stop, pushing the door open and peering in to take in the sight of its sole occupant lying on the bed.

He was asleep, as she had expected, blankets thrown back and knotted round his knees, sleep-shirt open to expose a bare chest like a Greek sculpture. But he was pale and his battered body was a pitiful sight to take in: the bandages placed over his stomach with scarlet blood staining the material, the mess of scars and flesh torn open that was his right shoulder. A lump began to form in Cosette's throat as she took a few hesitant steps into the room, not wanting to awaken him. She'd been told by Papa that Marius had sustained all of three injuries: two bullet wounds, one to the knee and another to the stomach, and in the shoulder he'd been stabbed by a soldier's bayonet. In short, it was a miracle he was still alive. Cosette swallowed hard and allowed her eyes to wander to the rest of him, the part of his body that was not so frightening to see.

His face. His cheeks-lips-nose-eyes. Neath the lids, his eyes were darting back and forth madly, disturbed. His nose sloped down to that perfect little point at the top of his mouth, which was open just slightly. His lips were just as full as they always were, and she longed to taste that mouth again and make him alright. But she didn't want to disturb his rest, so Cosette tiptoed across the room and brought over a chair that was sitting by the desk. Perching on the edge of it, she leaned forth and gingerly took hold of Marius' left hand. His palm was sweat-soaked and clammy.

Footsteps suddenly sounded from the corridor, causing Cosette to jump and look up. There in the doorframe stood Papa, shedding his waistcoat. He did not enter the room, and to her relief, he did not smile. Instead, he said, softly, "The doctor is downstairs, just so you know. He says he will live."

A breath of relief escaped Cosette and she nodded, lock-lipped and understanding. Papa continued, "He will live, and he will recover, though naturally it shall take time. His wounds are severe, but probably uninfected, I'm told." Her father offered a hand. "Let him rest now, Cosette, and come downstairs."

But Cosette shook her head firmly. "I shan't. I want to stay here with Marius." She half-expected to be scolded for disobedience, but Papa nodded understandingly, and quietly departed, leaving Cosette to be alone with Marius, who was lying so vulnerable on the bed, and in the emptiness of the room.

Her worst fears consoled, she now took the time to look around the room. It was half-dark: the room boasted large windows on either side of double doors that opened to a small balcony, but the curtains had been drawn. She did not rise to open them, for it only felt suitable that it should be dark in here, and besides, the light might awaken Marius. Mostly, the room was empty, save for this bed and the chair on which she now sat, a companion to the mahogany desk in the far corner. A majestic armoire could be seen on the other side of the room, left of the door, but it looked unused. To the door's right was an empty, dusty bookcase. These were the most imposing pieces of furniture in the room, standing impressively on either side of the door like sentries, and it occurred to Cosette that this must have been Marius' bedroom when he'd still been living here. Running her thumb over his unconscious hand, she wondered if he would be moving back in, and if she would be living with him.

It was so quiet in here, and though the sheets were disturbed round Marius' legs — an indication he'd been kicking in his sleep not long ago — and his eyes still moved back and forth, proof that he was suffering from a nightmare, she finally allowed herself to deflate and review the implausibility of her situation:

Marius and his student friends were idealistic young revolutionaries and had put up barricades across the city. Meanwhile, Papa had gotten word of her romance with Marius through a letter Marius had sent Cosette, and had decided to go to the barricades to protect the lad with whom his daughter was in love. The army had attacked them, leaving Marius terribly wounded. Papa had rescued the injured Marius by hauling him away from the battle and had dragged him through the Parisian sewers for the better part of the day, taking him home. The other students had all been killed, leaving poor Marius the only survivor. And now, here she and Papa were, with her lover lucky to be alive and her father aware of her relationship. He did not seem to be very angry with her, but Cosette reasoned that he must be and had decided to save his temper for a less desperate time.

At least he wasn't bent on separating her from him.

Cosette was still stroking the back of Marius' hand when suddenly he stirred. She was so startled that she dropped his hand and whispered his name.

Again, he stirred; a tiny pathetic whimper emerged from his throat, and Cosette clutched his hand again, repeated his name with intensity. This time she added on a few empty phrases of comfort: "Marius, it's alright. I'm here, Marius, my love." He whimpered again, a lost child, and she felt his pain as though it were her own. "I'm here with you; it's me."

The lids flickered open, revealing beneath them a pair of pale green eyes. But those eyes were not bright and warm, as they always were, they were pained and aged, grief-stricken. He blinked, and his brow furrowed. "Cosette?" he whispered in a thick voice.

"Yes, that's right; it's me, Marius. I'm here. And you've survived! You shall be alright." With her free hand, Cosette ran her fingers through his brown hair. "And — from what I understand — your name has been cleared of all charges, so you'll not be convicted for treason and … " Realising she was babbling, Cosette sucked in a few lungfuls of air, her eyes prickling with the threat of tears. "Oh, Marius, I'm just so happy you're alive!"

A smile that didn't reach his eyes played on his beautiful lips. "Happy to be alive … " he echoed in a murmur. "Didn't think I'd ever see you again, Cosette. My … " — he winced — "my angel." A dry chuckle escaped; it developed into a cough. Again Marius winced, then whispered, his voice scarcely audible. "Why … seeing you again makes my being alive worth it."

That struck a chord in Cosette. The fact of the matter was that Marius was always so happy whenever she was with him. He seemed so elated and entranced, as if she'd cast a spell upon him. Marius had been to Cosette like a beacon of light, and whenever they were together it had been as if a barrier had been erected between her and the hardships of the outside world, clearly separating them. He'd had but two emotions: happy and happier.

Yet here he was, her beloved, bright Marius Pontmercy, lying pitifully on the bed in front of her and looking like the epitome of unhappiness. Apart from his obvious ugly wounds, his face held such a look. Like it would never be able to smile again.

But of course, all his dear friends were dead. The grief Marius must be going through! It weighed him down so clearly, and Cosette was left helpless and dumb, running her hands through his hair. "Yes," was all she could say, yet another empty statement. "I am here, Marius. Now you must get better or I'll never forgive you."

Marius said nothing; Cosette's sentiments were abruptly cut short by the entrance of the doctor. The doctor was a portly, balding, moustachioed man who could have been anywhere between the ages of forty and sixty. His thinning hair was a dull shade of brown, and his small grey eyes were magnified by the tiny glasses he wore on the bridge of his rather large nose. In one fist he clutched a small flask of ale, and in the other a damp cloth; with no formal greetings he shooed Cosette from the room.

She waited, nervously hovering outside the door. She could assume what the ale was for: to ease the pain. As for the wet cloth, Cosette felt her nervousness expand into worry, for the only reason for the cloth she could come up with was to help with fever. Marius wasn't ill, was he? The worry plagued her as she paced a stretch of the corridor for the next ten or so minutes, until the doctor emerged again. She hurried to him, the thought that she might be acting a little silly or rude not even coming to her. "So he will live, then? Are you certain? Oh, say he will live! And … " she babbled, " … is he in much pain? He's not ill, is he? I — "

The doctor interrupted her. "I should think that if you do care about the young Baron so deeply, you would be wise to let him alone and let the boy rest," he said emphatically. "I am a busy man, and I'll be going now, girl, but I'll pause to answer you questions." As if for effect, he paused, and Cosette held her breath, waiting anxiously for him to continue. "He shall live, I am sure of it unless his condition dramatically declines, though I see no reason for him to degenerate in the first place at all. If you use common sense, my girl, then you might gather that he is indeed in a great deal of pain now, he will be for a while yet … indeed, it will take him two or three months to fully recover, and the journey to recovery shall be painful." He cleared his throat. "Finally … he's not got a fever, but he's been perspiring quite a lot so I fear he might contract a bout of illness if he doesn't rest." Again, the last word was heavily emphasised.

Cosette closed her eyes a moment, then rubbed her hands over her face. She thanked the doctor, as he'd been thorough and frank with her, if rather gruff, and as she wandered in a daze back to Marius' room, the doctor left. She scarcely noticed.

Marius had fallen back asleep again, and his blankets had been tugged back up his body. Not wanting to awaken him, Cosette sat gingerly at the desk chair and watched him sleep. She stayed there for a long time.

It had been just past midday when Cosette and her father had left their flat for the Baron Pontmercy's grand home, and now she stayed with her love until the sun began to set in the sky, the horizon overflowing with shades of rosy pink, of bold violet, and of a harsh, blood-coloured red. It must have been past seven o'clock when Papa reappeared, his hands clasped behind his back, his stubble shaved. Again, he did not pass into the room; he stood in the doorway and cleared his throat to get his daughter's attention; she looked up in surprise upon hearing him. Papa offered her a faint smile. "Has he slept all afternoon?"

Cosette nodded. "Yes."

"Then let him alone, and come downstairs, now, for we're wanted at dinner."

.~*~*~*~.

Dinner at home with Papa had always been a very casual affair — in fact, all meals had been, and aside from one champagne outing with Marius and occasional visits to lunchtime cafes with Papa, Cosette had only ever eaten in her own home. So she was surprised, once she'd followed Papa down to the dining room, how very formal and organised the affair was.

There were no guests other than Papa and herself, but fine china and silverware were laid out on the long table, which had been covered with the finest satin tablecloth Cosette had ever seen; the fabric was entirely unstained and the edges were embroidered with tiny blue flowers that had been stitched paying painstaking attention to detail. The centre of the table was occupied by enormous platters of different kinds of good foods: there were buttered peas and mashed potatoes, baked potatoes stuffed with olives, a bowlful of some kind of carrot dish, and in the centre of it all was the largest quiche Cosette had ever seen. The entire table was large enough to seat as many as ten people, and the portions were certainly enough to feed as many, but only three places were set. Two, she gathered, for herself and Papa, and at the far end (though not at the head) of the table sat a woman of about fifty with greying hair tied back in a stern bun. This, Cosette was told, was Marius' aunt, and his grandfather would not be dining with them tonight. Three or four maids stood at attention in a row by the far wall like soldiers.

Nervously she took a seat at the table, folding her napkin onto her lap, and Papa sat at her elbow. Cosette glanced over at him, then back at the woman. "Good evening," she said, trying to be polite.

Marius' aunt looked up. "Yes, indeed," she said with a nod, and with a sweeping gesture, indicated the food on the table. "Go on, then, my girl: serve yourself all you like." There was no warmth in her movements, but she didn't at all seem to mind that Cosette was there, so Cosette smiled gratefully and helped herself only to small portions of peas, baked potato, and quiche — it was not desirable to take too much food and be seen as a glutton, especially by Marius' aunt.

Dinner passed. Cosette had expected Marius to be the main topic of conversation, given that he was presently grievously wounded just upstairs, but his name was not so much as mentioned. Mademoiselle (for the woman was unmarried, despite her age) Gillenormand and Papa made mere small talk about the weather and other trivial matters; Cosette joined in every once in a while, puzzled for she knew how much Papa detested small talk. She felt very out of place the entire time, especially when, the moment she'd cleared her plate, a maid came up behind her and swept it away; a few minutes later another maid appeared with a plate of apple turnovers for desert, to which Cosette politely helped herself.

Marius' grandfather, the Baron Gillenormand, did not show up at all.

After the maids had cleared the plates away and had retreated into the kitchen, and once Mademoiselle Gillenormand had excused herself, Cosette, finding herself alone in the majesty of the dining room with Papa, asked him: "Papa, shall we be returning tomorrow?" She bit her lip and ducked her head at once. She knew that, any minute now, Papa would break into a scolding about her secret affair — that had been going on for a year, no less! She would be chastised horribly for being so deceitful, and she knew Papa must be beyond furious with her. Cosette wondered just how much he really knew, and felt the nervousness churning away inside her.

But Papa smiled at his daughter with typical warmth. "We'll not be returning tomorrow at all, my dear, for we shall be spending the night. In fact, we will be spending the next several nights here in the Baron's home — perhaps as long as a month!" Cosette looked up, wide-eyed, hardly able to believe it, and Papa continued: "While you were with that young lad in his room, I paid the Baron's coachman to take me home, and I've gathered an armload of our things: our clothes, and my candlesticks, and a couple of your books, for I knew you would want them here." He rose, clapped his hands together. "And now, darling, I suggest you get yourself prepared for bed, as it's been quite a long day, has it not?"

.~*~*~*~.

Not much later, a maid escorted Cosette to the bedroom where she'd be staying as a guest here. The room was surprisingly large, and quite comfortable, located on the second floor; it housed the bare necessities and a little more: a bed, a desk, a shelf, a small wardrobe, a washbasin, and even her own tub.

The maid herself couldn't have been much older than Cosette. She was meek in nature, small in size, and dark in colouring, and she introduced herself in her hushed, smoky voice as Agnès. Agnès insisted on carrying up the valise full of Cosette's clothes, and the blonde was left to trail uncomfortably and guiltily behind. As soon as Agnès led Cosette to her room, she was gone, her head bowed, forever weighed down by her status.

Fifteen minutes later, Cosette had washed her face and changed into her nightdress. She was about to climb into the soft large bed when she was surprised by a knocking at the door. Expecting it to be Papa, she answered, but instead the seventeen-year-old found herself staring up into the creased French face of a man she gathered to be Marius' grandfather. She blinked in surprise, then hastily curtseyed (she thought that was what she was supposed to do, anyway) and offered a polite smile. "Good evening, monsieur."

"It is, I suppose, isn't it?" the old man grunted, then clasped his weathered hands together. "Very clear. Fine view of the stars." As Cosette glanced over her shoulder out the window and took to nodding in agreement, he ambled on. "So. You are in love with my grandson."

Her face flushed, but she managed to hold her face steady. "Yes, monsieur."

"You have been … " (and here he shuffled his feet in what could almost be called embarrassment as he tried to come up with the right word) " … acquainted for a year now?"

"Yes, monsieur."

He shook his head. "You are young yet, too young to understand by grandson's own unspeakable affiliations. He attempted to rebel against our good King Louis-Philippe. It's not easy to forgive the boy for something like that, you know. Were it not for our status, he would surely hang for treason. And yet … you love him still."

"Yes, monsieur," Cosette managed. "I do. With all my heart." She waited for the Baron to address her again, but to her surprise, he promptly turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor. Taken aback, she hastened to shut the door.

She wasn't sure whether or not to expect Papa, but that night, he would not come. Though she had no way of knowing it, it would take her father three full days yet to address her secret involvement with Marius, and he would be cross and understanding, but devastated at the realisation that his little girl was growing up.

For now, however, Cosette wandered over to the window and leaned out of it, intending to get a better look at those stars. She had a fine view of the small back gardens from here, but her neck craned upwards, towards the sky. It was indeed a clear night, ideal for stargazing, and she wished Marius were better so they could admire it together: the sky was an untainted ink black, and the scattering of twinkling, beautiful, burning, dying stars light years away were beautiful. Beautiful and oblivious to the red blood that had run through the streets of one French city, the blood still warm for the hope and dream of a better world.

.~*~*~*~.

June 8

The following morning, Cosette woke to two pieces of news, delivered by Papa, who'd come to wake her up.

Firstly, she and Papa were wanted again in the dining hall for an English breakfast, where the Baron Gillenormand would be joining them. (Cosette, having never had an English breakfast before, found herself eager to try one). Secondly and unfortunately, she would not be allowed to see Marius all day. In fact, no one was to see him at all until late evening, for his condition had worsened somewhat and he desperately needed rest and isolation.

The mild-mannered young maid Agnès came to deliver Cosette a large pailful of water for her bath before breakfast, which she said she'd just warmed over the wood stove in the kitchen, along with a bar of soap and a flannel to dry herself with. Cosette, unaccustomed to being served, thanked her profusely and accidentally called Agnès mademoiselle; the serving girl flushed fuchsia at this and scuttled off in a rush, muttering about having to help with breakfast.

Half an hour later, feeling fresh but her heart weighed down by worried thoughts of poor Marius, Cosette had dressed in her best clean gown and made her way downstairs. Papa, Mademoiselle Gillenormand, and the Baron Gillenormand were already seated, the old Baron at the head of the table

On the table was, yet again, an impressive display of food: platters of bacon; bowls of porridge, and of strawberries in milk; a basket filled with toasts and accompanied by small jars of preserves; there were, too, cups of tea and coffee. Cosette had tried all these foods before of course, many a time, but never all at once and in such large amounts. As she sat herself down, emitting an awkward, polite good morning, it took effort not to serve herself too much.

Halfway through breakfast, as Cosette busied herself in spreading orange marmalade on her toast, one of the maids arrived with a newspaper, which she offered to the Baron Gillenormand. Marius' grandfather took it, but did not so much as acknowledge the woman who'd brought it to him. He thumbed through the newspaper until he found a report that was of interest to him, then settled back to reading, taking a long sip of tea. Not a word was spoken, and the maid backed away into the kitchen again.

But Cosette set down her knife, the wheels in her head turning as she found herself gripped. She surreptitiously leaned forwards, trying to get a look at the article on the front page. Surely there would be a long piece written to report on the students who'd lost their lives in their revolution? But to her surprise, there was nothing on the student revolt at all. Instead, the headlines reported on some irrelevant conflict that was going on in Spain, which the French were not involved with in the least. Letters spelled out the daily report in harsh black print that stood out against the winter- sky-grey paper. Disappointed and more than a little surprised, Cosette settled back down in her chair and returned to her toast. Papa and Mademoiselle Gillenormand were making small talk again, but to her it was little more than white noise: all she heard in her head were the cries for freedom that had been uttered by those poor students, the cries that would go unheard by public ears.

.~*~*~*~.

With little else to do, Cosette wound up wandering the back garden after breakfast. It seemed to her to be the kind of thing a lady might do without stirring up any scandals, and it reminded her of more innocent days when she used to go for strolls with Papa in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

The grounds were less expansive than she'd expected, but all the same they still managed to be a feast for the eyes. There was a small garden boasting fully bloomed flowers (as it was nearly summer), and herbs, too. There was a large, tree with low-hanging branches, and she wondered if Marius had climbed it as a child — the arrangement of the branches seemed to be begging all children to take hold of them and carry themselves as high as possible. Just beyond the garden was a paved courtyard with a small shed and private well, and it was here that Cosette found Agnès, hanging the washing. The poor serving girl seemed surprised to find Cosette there, but she bowed her head and offered a polite smile. "Good morning, mademoiselle. What brings you here, if you don't terribly mind my forwardness?"

"I was just wandering about. The garden is most lovely," Cosette answered simply. She took a seat on the steps leading to the shed and fanned herself with her hand.

Agnès leaned over, taking a chemise and shaking it out. Cosette knew it was rude to stare, especially to stare and do nothing as a girl not much older than herself settled down to hard work, but she found herself drawn to the familiarity of the act, so watch she did, in silence. At last, Cosette abruptly enquired, "Agnès? You must forgive my rudeness, but … how old are you?"

The maid looked up, blinked her sloe brown eyes. "Eighteen, mademoiselle, but I will be nineteen in August."

"You're very young to be a maid, aren't you?"

Agnès clucked her tongue and reached up to hang a stocking. "Not really. My mother works as a maid here, too, and I'm a bastard child, so I don't have many other options at all." When Cosette knit her brow, the dark girl gave a shake of the head. "It's alright, mademoiselle. I'm used to it, and I grew up here; each year I've done a little more to help my mother out, and once I turned eighteen they started paying me. It's not a bad life, just a tedious one."

You're very young to be a maid. Why did those words feel so familiar? Somewhere in the complex recesses of her memory, Cosette recalled another little girl too young to be doing hard labour. She furrowed her brow, and then blurted out a concern that had been bothering her for a while now. "You know, I … I think I may be have been born out of wedlock too." As soon as she'd said it, she regretted it: to disclose such scandalous information to a stranger was ludicrous.

But Agnès surprised her by asking calmly, "Have you no mother, then, mademoiselle?"

Cosette shook her head. "She passed away when I was eight, but even then she never did raise me. After her death, I was taken in by a good man, a friend of my mother's from what I understand, and that is the man I now consider my Papa. I never did meet my birth father. So …. " she trailed off, and looked down at her hands, worrying the fabric of her skirts. A dry chuckle escaped her. "It matters little."

"I'm not one to judge, mademoiselle," was Agnès' knowing reply. "But you are very kind. I can tell that much. You are very kind, and so is that Papa of yours." She pursed her lips and cocked her head, the wet clothing dripping from her arms forgotten. "You know, mademoiselle, you're quite a lot like him. Good and kind and humble, with plenty of room in your heart for others. It's not a trait I often see in members of your class, if you don't mind my saying. But some … " Her gaze wandered upwards, to the second floor windows where Marius must be sleeping. " … well, there a few. Like you, and your father, and m'sieur Marius." A small smile as she focused on the laundry. "Oh, you love him greatly, don't you, mademoiselle? I can tell."

Not for the first time, Cosette blushed. "Well — yes. One could say as much."

"Oh, anyone could tell," Agnès continued. "And a fine choice, too, for he's a good soul. Like you, mademoiselle. Humble and — kind. When we were small — for he's not all that much older than I — he was always good to me, and sometimes we played together. There were no other children about, so it was always a delight. We played all manner of games here in this garden, not caring for a second if we were scolded about it. With a skipping rope, with an India-rubber ball, hide-and-seek. We even climbed that tree." The finger pointed, the eyes sighed. "Life is simpler when you're a child," was her final, blunt remark. "And it's so marvellous while it lasts."

Suddenly righting herself, Agnès said, "Do you believe that the two of you shall marry when he recovers?"

And Cosette grinned. "I don't doubt it for a second."

.~*~*~*~.

It was nighttime. Cosette hadn't seen Marius at all over the course of the day, and continued to be properly worried for him. Which might have explained why she was presently slipping down the deserted corridor barefoot, a burning candle in hand lighting her way. Her steps were light and slow for fear of being caught, though by whom she wasn't sure. The Gillenormands, she'd established, slept on the third floor, and the maids in the attic. By Papa, then?

She reached Marius' chambers and pushed the door open. If you so much as dare to creak, now … she thought threateningly to the door, but it disobeyed and released a creak to wake the dead. Cringing, Cosette only pushed it open wide enough to slip her narrow frame through, then padded into the room, deciding it was wise not to close the door behind her.

"Marius?" her voice cut through the dark, floated in the air, and found the vulnerable form lying on the bed. To her surprise, the wounded student slowly sat up.

"Cosette?" he whispered in disbelief, reaching a hand out.

Cosette sat on the edge of his bed and placed the candle on the floor at her feet, a safe distance away from the hem of her nightdress. She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. "Yes, it's me. Rest, now."

He obeyed, lying back down, and in the flickering candlelight Cosette took him in, trying to avoid the parts of him that were injured: narrow, freckle-covered face, now pallid; rumpled, half-buttoned sleep-shirt; brown hair which appeared to have played host to his fingers for much of the day; light green eyes that yearned for more than she'd given him credit for. She drank in the sight of him, then leaned over and briefly kissed his lips. She was surprised when she felt a hand tugging at her collar, tugging her down to him. Marius murmured into her shoulder, "Lie with me."

"You're injured. I ought not … "

"Please." He sounded so desperate that Cosette gave in. Careful not to bump against his side, she slipped under the covers and rested her head against his shoulder, his good shoulder. His arm wrapped around her and he murmured, "You're all I have left."

There was no point in evading the topic of the barricades, though it pained her to see him so lost to grief. "All your friends … " Cosette said slowly. "It's unbelievable. But there's no way of knowing yet, perhaps — "

Marius interrupted her. "It's alright. I know that there were no survivors besides me. All my friends are dead and gone, and that's that." She heard him gulp. "Now I must live with it."

Cosette closed her eyes. "We'll marry when you're healed, and together, perhaps, we shall live with it together." She shook her head. "You were willing to die for a free world."

"I suppose so. I suppose we all were."

"You had something to believe in so strongly. You were ready to die, to sacrifice yourself. All of you." She paused. "There were no items on your barricades and your lost cause in the newspapers, Marius. Not a word on how many lives were lost. How many were you?"

Marius didn't answer, and she supposed that was fair. So all Cosette said was, as frankly as she could, "It won't be easy."

"No," Marius agreed. "It won't be. But I have you, and though there is only one person left in the world that I love, it is enough."

And perhaps it was. Cosette, her eyes still closed, tried to time her breathing with his, listened to the sound of his heartbeat. She had few people in the world, too, but one of them was here, with her. Alive.

There was a long road ahead of her, she thought as Marius began to fall asleep. A long road on which she would encounter suffering. But at least she didn't have to travel it alone.

.~*~*~*~.

— The End —