Her words are her suit of armour.
She swears she's not afraid, but the guns terrify her. She's more scared than ever.
He takes her hand as a comforting gesture,
let's her know he's still there, still alive.
Ironic that the two people that joined the revolution only to be with the loves of their lives, perhaps for the last time, should be the only two left.
Neither are ready to die, but which of the rest of them were?
They were just children, in the end, the lot of them.
She's crawled over to the other end of the cafe, trying to find a spare gun from one of the Amis.
Joly.
Atleast he died with his best friend, maybe died with a little bit of happiness. He and Combeferre have their hands clasped, Joly's head in his lap.
Almost looks like they're smiling. More of a Mona Lisa smile. Hard to tell.
A shot rings out. He calls her name, makes sure she's okay.
"Eponine?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
She's still on the other side of the cafe. Her words sounded strained.
He scrambles over to where she's sitting, her hand clasped over her side, eyes squeezed shut, gritting her teeth.
He rips part of his sleeve, tries to wrap it around the wound.
She looks bewildered for him to be trying to help her while there's guards surrounding the cafe, ready to shoot at any moment.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to help you, hold still."
"B-but you could be killed! They'll shoot you, too!"
He stops wrapping her for a second, holds her wide-eyed gaze for a moment.
He's nearly out of breath, his voice is ragged, but still a bit velvety.
"Well then atleast neither of us will have died alone."