L'Amour Triomphe de Tout: An At Dawn Continuation

Six years after the events of At Dawn…

Startlingly blue-eyed Euphrasie is the spitting image of her namesake and mother, with the exception of her heavy mahogany hair, which she inherits—although her adopted parents do not know it—from the long-dead Fantine.

But she's so much like her adopted father that Eponine once teasingly asked her husband whether he'd had an affair with Cosette he hadn't told her about. She found it amusing how horrified he'd been, and their daughter, too young back then to hear or understand, had gurgled happily at his blushing and stuttering. But Eponine can't begrudge him the happiness of having someone to discuss politics and argue the pros and cons of different forms of government with, even if that someone is a six-year-old girl. Bright, bookish, idealistic, and passionate even at her young age, Euphrasie easily gets acquaintances to adore her but struggles with the idea of friendship.

They worry. Of course they do. They always have, and they've been fiercely protective of their daughter from the moment of her frighteningly premature and disastrous birth. But she's beautiful, and vital, and full of life.

Enjolras is just glad that no trace of her father is clear in his angel's features. He wouldn't have been able to stand it if he had to think of Marius every time he looked at her. Even after six years, he can't forgive the man who first broke Eponine's heart and then abandoned his own child.

…

"Sit still, 'Phrasie," Eponine commands. The child only squirms a little more, and Eponine almost throws down her pencil in frustration. She started with these monthly portraits of her daughter when Euphrasie was two, and she'll always regret that there are no photos of the child as a baby. But there was little room for art or beauty in the lifestyle of the Thénardiers, and it took her a while to discover her talent for sketching and painting.

Euphrasie resents having to dress nicely and stay motionless for the sittings. Like her father, who can never keep his cravat tied, the child seems made for loose and ink-stained clothing, as well as constantly doing something.

It's Sunday. They've left London for the nearby countryside because Eponine found she couldn't stand the crowds and the filth once Cosette died. And Enjolras was only too happy to leave the home where Valjean and Cosette and Marius lingered everywhere. Her husband is outside now, forgetting his job in public service for once, reading and enjoying the June air.

"Time for church," Eponine says, finally putting away her sketchbook. Euphrasie jumps up. Eponine turns her head towards the door to call for Enjolras, and her stomach twists. She gasps, and makes it to the sink just in time.

She doesn't even notice that Enjolras is standing behind her, rubbing soothing circles on her back as she gags violently.

"Did you eat something that—"

"No. I remember this. And it's been six weeks since I last bled."

Enjolras' hand freezes against her shoulder blades. "Euphrasie. Go upstairs to your bedroom."

"But, Papa—"

"Now."

Her eyes go wide and frightened at his tone, and she flees to her room.

"It's not possible. The doctor said it's not possible—" Eponine's hands press against her abdomen, where she believed for so long that the destroyed remnants of her womb lay.

"He could have been wrong."

And then, suddenly, they are both laughing, slightly hysterical, and Enjolras kisses her fiercely, his tears soaking her cheeks.

She's sure, somehow, that it's a boy this time. She's always thought that the child who died before it could live was a daughter.

…

They write down the names of all the men they lost, and each name is like another stab to the gut.

Neither of them mentions her father. Eponine tentatively brings up the topic of his, but his lips go tight and she doesn't mention it again. They ignore Marius as well. And then Eponine starts crying when he mentions Gavroche, and they decide to give their son a name unburdened by the past.

Sébastian is their final decision. Jean as a middle name, a name less tragic than the others. The name of the man who saved both their lives. The name of the man who protected the mother of their firstborn child and the woman they both adored.

…

He will feel his heart burst with happiness and twang with fear whenever he sees Euphrasie press her hands against Eponine's protruding belly, feeling the growing form of her brother and the sensation of his kicks.

He will kiss away Eponine's tears of uncertainty in bed at night. He will come home to find Eponine standing in the kitchen with something burning to a crisp on the stove and tears streaming down her face. She's so afraid of losing another soul and finding another ghost.

…

Eight months later, he paces the hospital and tries very hard not to remember. Eponine's gasps and cries echo down the hallway and he wants so very badly to shove open the door and rush to her side and feel her hand in his again, never mind the doctor's warnings. But the labor is quicker than Cosette's. Everything is perfect. The child is healthy. She is healthy.

He can't stop smiling.

Eponine is sitting up in bed when he goes to her, cradling their newborn.

"It's a girl," she murmurs. "Azelma Jeanne." He's too ecstatic to be surprised.

They haven't managed to find her sister, and after six years of trying, they've both given up.

Little 'Zelma opens her eyes. Black as jet buttons. Charlotte's eyes. Eponine's eyes.

He remembers Eponine, young and bruised and frightened, pounding on his door, those familiar eyes glistening as he let her into his house and his heart.

We've come full circle.

Ever so gentle, he reaches out to stroke the child's silky cheek.

There you have it, folks. Hope you like it. (I reasoned that a doctor back then could very well make a mistake like that). Please review.