25Author's Note: So finally, after almost five months, this reaches it conclusion. I sincerely apologize for making you all wait such a long time with this, and I sincerely appreciate all of the support for this. Thank you so much!
And now without further delay, Part II. Enjoy! :)
Time goes on. Summer gives way to the cooling breeze and the decay of autumn. The trees are bare, snow begins to fall, and winter begins.
Marius begins to court Euphrasie Fauchelevent, the servant girl Eponine had known as Cosette years ago, and the gamine realizes how the tables have turned. The servant girl, poor in a time while the Thenardiers had thrived. Now, the servant girl lives a comfortable life and has stolen the heart of the man the foolish gamine had fallen for, while the Jondrettes struggle to have so much as a few sous in their hands.
Her father, her mother, and the Patron Minette have been arrested during one of their schemes in the early fall, resulting in a prison sentence that left Eponine and her sister to fend for themselves. Their apartment was no longer theirs, no roof above their heads, leaving the pair to scavenge day and night. The air grew colder, and her sister's health took a terrible turn. Eponine, desperate to keep her lone sister alive, sought out a convent with the hopes they would help her, perhaps provide her shelter for the time being. The Sisters took pity and allowed them in. Eponine did not stay long, though, only a few days to ensure her sister was getting better, before returning to the streets with the hopes of finding something for the long-term. Eponine has not seen her since, and as far as she can tell, she's on her own.
La Mort, under the name "Enjolras," continues to carry on with his involvement within the Friends of the ABC, much to Eponine's chagrin. He, alongside Marius, have gathered numerous supporters against Louis-Philippe, a majority of them young men like most of the members of Les Amis de l'ABC. The young men are convinced the people are on their side and will fight with them when the time comes, but Eponine knows better, at least about the latter, and she has a feeling Death knows the same.
"Why won't you tell them?" Eponine asks him one late December night on the second floor of the old café. "This could be a chance to stop many needless deaths."
"Again, dear Eponine, as I have told you, I have no say in this." he replies tiredly, his eyes going over the words he had just finished writing on a piece of parchment. "Do I want to be responsible for what is to come? No, but it is what I must do, whether I want to or otherwise."
"Have you appealed to Fate? Maybe it isn't too late for her to change their tapestries!" the gamine suggests, but only in vain.
Death takes a deep breath. "I have, on a few occasions, but she told me for time to pass as it should, their losses are a necessity, and that is not something I can easily argue."
"Surely you could find something?"
"Their deaths are fixed points in time, and one way or another when the time comes, they will expire. I cannot change it, and neither will Fate." he tells her, setting the piece of parchment aside. "It is a terrible thing, and I understand that, but there is absolutely nothing I can do, I'm sorry."
"There must be something!" the gamine sits down in the chair beside him with a thud, glancing down at the parchment, before her eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What language is that in?"
La Mort takes notice that she is referring to the writing on the parchment, and delicately moves the paper out of her sight. "That is none of your concern."
"It certainly wasn't French." Eponine continues, only wishing she had gotten a better look at it. "May I see it?"
"No."
"It is not as if I can read it—I only know French." she argues, trying to reach around him to grab the parchment on the other side of him. He then stands up from his chair, taking the parchment with him before placing it carefully inside the messenger bag by the stairs.
"Let it alone, mademoiselle." he tells her as she immediately gets up from the chair in the hopes of getting to the bag before he becomes an obstacle, but nonetheless, he gets in her way. "It is no concern of yours."
"I am only curious, Enjolras." Eponine says teasingly. "There is no need to be uptight about it."
Death huffs at this before putting on his coat. "Did your parents ever teach you to respect others' business?"
"I believe that is a question you already have an answer to." she replies, leaning against a chair as she watched him gather his things. "I do wonder, though, how you are capable of maintaining a form visible to mortals, and walking among us in the flesh."
"Do you now?" he did not sound surprised.
"When you appeal to the crowds, they can hear you, and your companions can shake your hand, as if you are actually human." she continues, having had similar thoughts in her mind since the one day she had delivered letters to him and Courfeyrac. "Instead of a spirit."
"There are some questions better left unanswered." la Mort replies, pausing for a moment, his eyes seemingly focused on the lone lit candle in the room. Eponine moves her head, before noticing something odd about the candle itself. The candle flickers as normal, the flame picking up on the directions of moving air, but the dripping wax…the candle is an aged white, and she swears the melted wax dripping down its sides is crimson. She blinks a few times, just to make sure her eyes are not playing a trick on her, only to find that the sight remains the same.
"That…how…?" Eponine starts to ask, but she is unsure of how to string the words together.
"There are some things that simply cannot be explained." he answers, watching the blood-colored substance on the candle. "Only shown."
"You are rather cryptic in your answers." she comments, coming up from behind him.
"Perhaps that is the way they are intended to be." he looks at her with a half-smile, and she rolls her eyes in response. He takes a few steps away from the messenger bag to extinguish the candle, and with this opportunity, she almost heads towards it to snatch the paper. If she got ahold of it without his notice, there may be a chance Marius might be able to figure at least what language it was in, and if she was lucky, perhaps there was a chance he could translate it…
But Death returns too quickly for her to act, and only by the cold expression in his eyes does she realize so much as attempting to snatch the paper from the bag was not even worth it. She does not fear him, no, nor is she afraid of what he is capable of, but the steel-blue of his eyes, ancient as time itself, almost causes her to forget about the parchment entirely, and for what reason, she does not know.
She expects him to vanish, the darkness of the shadows enough for him to disappear without a trace. Instead, he lingers, the moonlight from the window enough for her to make out his form.
The cold December air from the drafty window causes her to shiver, her clothing not suitable enough for the weather winter brings. Her clothing is covered in patches and holes, her boots falling apart from wear, and she does not even have so much as a scarf or an old coat to give her warmth. With no place to go, she spends most nights on the streets, except on the rare occasion she stumbles upon an empty house where a fire could be lit. She has yet to fall ill from the lack of proper clothing, and she considers herself lucky for that, on top of la Mort choosing not to claim her in these frigid months.
"I thought you were leaving." she says, trying to ignore the chill that reaches her skin.
"I was," he replies, glancing at the window. "But Madame Hucheloup will not be pleased if she finds I left with you still here."
"I won't cause any harm."
Death nods curtly. "I am aware of that, mademoiselle, but she might not be as understanding."
"Might not be, or will not be?" Eponine inquires, hoping that he will brush it off just this once for the sake of a roof being over her head, but the unchanging look on his face is enough for her to realize her efforts are pointless.
"Mademoiselle…" he warns, his tone clearly informing her that he does not have the patience for such banter. She, however, is not willing to give up, not just yet.
"You are always talking of helping the poor," she mentions, taking a few steps towards him. "Yet when the opportunity presents itself, you refuse to do anything about it."
"I have my reasons, and Madame Hucheloup has hers, one being she does not want her café turning into a shelter for the poor, at least just yet." he tells her, annoyance in his tone. "It is lucky enough she allows us to carry on our activities when she could very well report us and have us arrested for treason."
"They can't arrest you, and they won't be able to execute you either." Eponine thinks aloud, taking a few steps towards him. "The other men, certainly, but not you. Now, regarding you leaving…"
"You cannot stay here." Death rephrases, his steel-blue eyes glaring at her. She is not taken aback by his expression at all, and takes a few steps closer. "I understand you have no place to go, but there is nothing I can offer you. I can suggest seeking Marius out and asking to stay with him, though such things are not proper and if I am perceiving things correctly, you two have not been on speaking terms as of late."
"Non." she shakes her head, knowing the truth behind his words. Reluctantly, she gives up, and as she starts down the stairs, she can feel his cold eyes upon her back, before she hears his footsteps close behind, to see her out.
At the café's entrance, he holds the door open for her, like a proper gentleman would. She remains close by as she listens to the sound of him locking the door, the streets otherwise peaceful in the falling snow. The buildings' windows are dark, families having gone to bed a few hours ago, while smoke slowly rises from the chimneys, providing warmth from the unforgiving temperatures that lie outside their doors. How she longs for something like that! To have a bed to sleep in, a roof over her head, sheltering her from the snow as a fire burns in the hearth—
Eponine, exposed to the relentless cold of winter, does not what comes over her as she begins to feel light-headed. The snowflakes being blown in the wind encircle her, and watching them has a dizzying effect as she tries to keep her balance. Before she realizes it, her arm reaches out, seeking something to prevent her from falling to ground, and grips onto la Mort's shoulder as her knees give in from the strain. She collapses, and he catches her.
"Mon Dieu!" she hears him gasp, managing to grab her before she falls to the ground. "Are you all right, Eponine?"
Clearly not, having just nearly passed out from being outside. Her small, fragile frame is shivering in his arms. Seeking warmth, she nestles close to his chest, expecting his body heat to warm her a little bit, but her attempts are futile. He is not human, not mortal. He does not have blood running through his veins to keep him alive, for he has no need for it. He is nothing more than a spirit in human form. His body is cold, like ice against her skin. He is not alive, nor dead; no heart beats in his chest. Anything from him that would be of comfort to her does not exist, not with him.
She does not know how long he holds her in his arms, her instincts focusing on finding a source of heat through him, albeit unsuccessful. She does not know why her body decided to surrender like that, directly in front of Death himself in the midst of snowfall and freezing temperatures. She does not know why he does not simply leave her on the cold cobblestones, and instead carries her like a child who had fallen asleep in their parent's arms.
She is not fully aware as to when the biting winter air changes into soothing warmth, nor when la Mort lays her down on a couch in front of flickering flames. She does not notice when blankets are draped over her shivering form. She barely catches the exchange between Death and another, but through the blurred shapes she thinks she can make out a pair of glasses.
"Enjolras, what is—Is that the Jondrette girl?"
A nod, and then the two figures come near her as her vision takes its precious time to clear. She does not shrink away or put up a fight when the bespectacled student kneels down by the couch and places a hand on her forehead, or when he takes hold of her wrist to check her pulse. Though her spirit is strong, in this moment her body is weak.
"There's no fever, but her pulse, it's not where it should be." he says to 'Enjolras,' before turning his attention back towards her. "Mademoiselle, can you hear me?"
Eponine nods, only enough to give him a response.
"How do you feel?"
"Cold…" she croaks, her voice faint as she snuggles into the blankets. She catches his eyes flicker towards la Mort, who takes a few steps forwards, appearing quite concerned. In most circumstances, with most people, she could understand, but when Death himself is, she cannot help but to be a little worried. The spirit could actually be genuinely concerned, while on the other hand, he might only appear that way because another person is present.
"Have you eaten recently?" the student asks her, and she shakes her head slightly. Food is difficult enough for her to find in the warmer months, scraps easier to come upon over the rarity of something fresh. Winter was not as kind, and very rarely did she even stumble upon a tiny bit of scrapped food. In truth, she can't even remember when she had so much a crumb to nibble on.
La Mort, without a single word, disappears into the kitchen as the student starts boiling water in the fireplace, before returning with a small plate of bread that he sets on the end table. Eponine barely takes notice.
"The lack of food and the cold have taken their toll on her, I think." she hears the student comment by the fire. "She'll survive, I do not doubt, but had you not been there…I highly doubt she would have lasted the night."
"There are others out there, Combeferre, just like her. We only have not encountered them yet." Death replies as he joins the student by the fire. "And Louis-Philippe stands by and allows such suffering to continue, when the problem is directly underneath his nose. Things will only become worse if they remain as they are."
"You are not wrong, my dear friend, I grant you that." Combeferre stirs the water in the pot. "But as the tensions rise and the spark ignites, we cannot be certain the people will rise with us. They support us, certainly, but that does not guarantee that they will fight."
As the conversation carries on, Eponine notices how the two men take the concept of revolution seriously. She is positive that Death knows exactly what is to come, when it'll happen, who is to die and who will survive. The student, though, does not have such an advantage, yet he seems to have a firm grasp on what could possibly happen and why. He understands that yes, for change to happen, rebellion is often the action taken, but at the same time, is well-aware of the consequences, death being the obvious one.
Here and there, she nibbles on the bit of bread, listening to the two go back and forth. Even as there is a brief pause as Combeferre gives her a warm cup of tea, the pair talk for what must be for two hours, before she dozes off.
When she wakes up, the conversation, by the sound of it, is still going, only it has moved into the kitchen. That…and it appears the subject has changed.
"…I was not going to leave her there is such a state." she hears la Mort say as there is a small clang of a glass being set onto the counter. "What kind of man would I look like if someone saw me walk away and abandon her?"
"I am not saying you were wrong in bringing her here," the other man responds. "I am only making the observation that this is…not something you normally do. Hand out pamphlets and a few sous, yes, or maybe offer a quilt or your coat, but bringing someone from the outside here, is not something I would expect you to do."
A pause. A few footsteps creaking on the floor, almost pacing, then a soft thud that sounded like someone just leaned against the wall or countertop. The sound of a glass grazing the countertop back and forth while another is set down.
"Oh." she hears Combeferre mutter in realization, and she wishes she knew what it was about.
A tired sigh. "You won't tell the others, will you?"
There is the sound of one clapping a hand to the other's shoulder. "Not a word."
Months pass, seasons change. 1831 seamlessly becomes 1832, winter morphs into spring. Tensions rise, the scent of death and rebellion in the air as cholera begins to plague Paris, picking off its citizens one by one.
The Friends of the ABC and their counterparts continue to spread their ideas of change, of a Republic in France. In caution, they speak out against their King of the French, about what he has done to help the people's plight, or rather, the lack of it.
Eponine finds it more and more difficult to avoid the crowds the Republicans gather, their promises of equality and justice pulling them in. These crowds only grow larger as many hear that General Lamarque is ill, slowly dying from the same plague affecting the rest of Paris. The young men speak with such passion, such fire, it is only a shame that such raging flames will eventually be put out by a shower of bullets. Sometimes, to her, it sounds like la Mort is even convinced the rebellion could be a success, but oh, she knows her old friend all-too well.
"Is it painful?" she asks him one evening on the second story of the Café Musain, after the others had left.
"What is?"
"That you know what is come, that you are leading these men to slaughter?" she clarifies, looking over his shoulder as he writes on piece of paper, most likely notes for the next meeting or a speech's draft.
The quill stops. "It depends on what you define as 'painful'."
"Pity, remorse." Eponine sits down on the table beside the paper, watching his facial expressions shift as he goes back to writing. "Perhaps grief?"
He takes a deep breath. "You are asking someone who has removed people from Life for centuries."
"Doesn't mean you can't feel, and I know you can." She notices him crinkle his nose for a moment, before he shakes his head. "You have killed out of pity, out of anger. What would stop you from feeling the former or anything like it weeks before you have to kill them?"
"One learns not to develop feelings for others they have made companions out of after living for so many years." he answers bitterly, setting the quill down before rising from the chair. "Especially if that one has to one day kill them, which in my case, I always do."
"You could try saving them, and not kill them."
He sighs in annoyance. "As I have previously informed you, mademoiselle, I cannot change what Fate has in store for them, and if I could, even if I saved so much as one life, it could have dramatic effects on to what is supposed to happen. It could possibly create complications greater than that, even."
"Do you speak from experience, then, or do you always listen to what Fate tells you?" Eponine asks sharply, and simply by the look she receives in return, she can tell that he has, indeed, disobeyed Fate at least on one occasion. The way his blue eyes turn away from her, catching interest in the floor, how his annoyance and fierceness seemingly fade quickly. His shoulders tense, his body stills. A sense of guilt hangs in the air…
"I see…" she says quietly, before placing a hand atop his. His cold hand stiffens at her touch at first, then relaxing. His head turns, allowing her to catch a glimpse of what she can only perceive as grief in his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"What is there to apologize for?" he questions, his eyes flickering up at her. "It is of no fault but my own."
"That…I shouldn't have asked." Eponine pulls her hand away, back into her lap. The candle's light causes the pair's shadows to dance about the walls, she observes, though the both of them, at this moment, are still. Her eyes take a glance at the paper beside her, once again in a language unknown to her, and with him being Death, it could very well be any language that ever existed, the only possibility she could eliminate was French. However, when he appears to notice her looking at the paper, instead of snatching it away like last time, he only looks down at it.
"Sixteen years…" she hears him mutter under his breath, and she barely catches it. "Set this country back sixteen years…"
What he means by that, she isn't sure. What she is aware of, though, based on his tone, it would not be wise to ask.
Only a few days later, on June first, 1832, does news spread that General Lamarque has passed, and with his passing, the rebellion's spark.
The second floor of the Musain is nothing short of hectic. All the time, all the planning, the organization, it all lead up to this. Guns and ammunition are checked and gathered. The map is looked over once more, as the group goes over the plans. They will meet at the funeral procession and strike then, and if chaos erupts, the rendezvous point will be the Musain. If anything, violence is to be the final result, mortalities along with it.
Even as she sits in the café, listening to everyone's ramblings about how the people will join them in the fight, Eponine can sense that they are aware of the fact that they may not make it out alive. Nobody says it, but it is felt. They know this is a dangerous game they are playing, students fighting soldiers, a good portion of them, anyway.
In the midst of preparations, she notices Marius sneak down the stairs, and with little hesitation, she follows him, knowing full well it could be the last time she will see him alive.
"Where are you going off to?" she asks when she reaches him in the streets, grabbing on to the sleeve of his coat. "Abandoning your friends, are you?"
"Oh, Eponine, I do not want to," he replies earnestly, desperation in his hazel eyes. "And I won't, but…I have to at least say goodbye to Cosette, in the case I do not come out of the fight alive."
She tries to fight the trace of a smile that forms upon her face, recalling the times she loved the man who would never love her back, who loved the servant girl she knew as a child instead. She will admit, it still hurts to think about it, but when it comes down to it all, she would rather see him happy with another than miserable with her.
"Then what are you standing here for?" she teases, playfully shoving him in the direction he was going before she stopped him. "Go to her, and I'll shall meet you when the barricades arise!"
He starts to leave, but when she finishes the latter phrase, he pauses, the look of desperation turning into fear. Without warning, he places his hands on her shoulders and looks her straight in the eye.
"No, Eponine, you won't." Marius says sincerely, shaking his head. "You will not go to the barricades."
"This fight is just as much yours as it is mine." Eponine argues, defiance in her eyes. "And a woman can fight just as well as any man."
"I know, but that's not it." he tells her, tightening his grip on her shoulders. "I do not want you to get hurt, Eponine, and that is why you mustn't go. Please, promise me that you will stay away from the barricades!"
A pause.
"I can't promise that, Marius." she says earnestly, her eyes drifting towards the ground before meeting his. "I'm sorry."
He sighs, shaking his head as his arms fall to his sides. "This is no robbery, Eponine. You could be shot and killed, and the National Guard would not think twice about it. Man or woman, rebellion is an act of treason, and if we do not win this…I do not want you to suffer for this."
"Monsieur, I do not know if you've noticed as of late, but the life I live is not exactly a simple one." she counters, gesturing to herself. "If anything, I am already suffering, and I have been for quite some time. There is no roof above my head but the stars. The last bit of food I had was a scrap of moldy bread behind one of the bakeries. The only clothing I have is what is on my back, and it is quite raggedy as it is."
"Better for you to be alive and suffering than alive and tortured, or worse." Marius argues sharply. "If you are at the barricades, and we lose, there is no telling what the National Guardsmen will to do you if you are still alive, whether a bullet has gone through you or you have not even been scratched."
"They don't scare me." Eponine folds her arms across her chest in defiance. "When it comes down to it, they're no different than you or I. They are men in uniforms who may know how to shoot a gun better than either of us, but they are still human, who bleed and die as much as any of us."
He heaves an exasperated sigh, growing quite tired of the argument, yet desperate to get through to her at the same time. "That is not the point, Eponine, and you darn well know it. Stay away from the barricades, to give me peace of mind, please, and if you won't do it for me, then do it for Azelma, because she may very well be concerned about her sister, and if you won't do it for her, then do it for Enjolras."
The last word is what stops her from firing back a sharply-worded retort. "Pardon, but why would Enjolras be concerned about me?"
Marius takes one step back from her, a look of puzzlement on his face, which does not help her figure out much. "You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?" she asks, taking a small step towards him. "Marius, what don't I know?"
"Merde, Combeferre's going to kill me!" she hears him mutter under his breath, before she thinks: Not if Death gets to you first… "Just stay away from the barricades."
Marius turns around, ready to make haste in his journey to speak with Cosette, but Eponine manages to get enough grip on his coat to prevent him from getting too far. She is not going to let him easily get away by causing such questions to come to mind, though if he tried, he might be able to get free from her grasp, but he doesn't fight.
"Marius, what don't I know?" she repeats, her eyes looking straight into his. "You wouldn't have said it if it was supposed to be of some significance to me."
"Eponine—"
"Why does he care? He's leading you and many other men to slaughter. What's to add an insignificant gamine to the list as well?" Eponine counters, amber eyes flaring. "He cannot spare us if Fate has destined us to Death."
"I am sure he wants to prevent as many deaths as he possibly can." Marius replies tightly, freeing his sleeve from her grasp. "If you are not there, that is one less life he needs to worry about."
"If I am meant to die, what little difference does it make whether it's from starvation or a bullet?"
He shakes his head. "That is beside the point—"
"Is it now?" she questions sarcastically, taking a few steps away from him. "Death always takes us away in the end. If I die at the barricades, my life is only being cut short, or perhaps not. Perhaps Destiny wants me to die at the barricades, and Fate is merely helping me along."
"Then stop listening to them!" he suggests in haste, in desperation. "If they are only pulling you closer to death, then cut the rope, sever the ties, and run. Run away from such temptation, and live on. Please, Eponine, do this for me!"
She sees the plea in his eyes, telling her to listen, and she hears him. However, she does not have to obey.
"Alright." she says finally, trying to hide her inner thoughts that would seal her fate. "I'll stay away."
She doesn't stay away.
As expected, chaos erupts, sending the Friends of the ABC to build a barricade on the Musain's doorstep. The haphazardly-built structure is just as dangerous to scale as some of the objects it contains. Snapped, jagged pieces of wood and sharp metal bars are only of couple of things in the barricade that could kill the men instead of the bullets and bayonets.
She manages to fit in well, donning men's clothing she found in the streets with her long brown hair hidden beneath her cap. None of the students seem to notice the woman among their ranks, her breasts bound and the looser clothing disguising her femininity. In times of raining bullets, she is helping to load the guns, her spot low on the barricade being easy to defend. In times of less seriousness, she has heard men make crude remarks, has been shoved around playfully, has had hands clasp her shoulders thankfully. No, no one seems to notice.
Almost no one.
It is not long after the first attack when she feels someone's eyes on her, seeing directly through her disguise. It makes her skin crawl, and she does not have to turn her head to know who is watching her. She should know better that she cannot fool him, one who has the most knowledge of anyone upon the barricade, in regards to who will perish here and who will live on with the events torturing their minds in years to come. Yes, humans may not be able to detect her, but he who lives among the living while never having lived, she cannot trick him.
In between attacks, he pulls her to the side.
"You are not supposed to be here." he growls at her, his cold hand having a tight grip on her wrist. "Do you not listen to anything you are told?"
"Depends on the situation." Eponine replies, not at all taken aback by the confrontation. "I am willing to fight for my fellow man, though I know what the outcome is to be."
"You need to leave." la Mort tells her, pointing towards a dark, unlit alley beside the barricade. "And you need to be quick about it."
She manages to free her wrist from his grasp before crossing her arms. "I am not going anywhere."
He shakes his head, blue eyes likes raging waves. "Indeed, you are. There will be no unnecessary lives risked or lost."
"So I will put myself at risk." she tells him calmly, despite the uneasy feeling she has inside. Risking her life is something she has done before, on many occasions, and did it with a sense that she had a fairly good chance of survival. However, those were not in situations where Death played a major role. She could very well die if she stays at the barricade, along with everyone else, if she is meant to. If she is not meant to die, she will survive this, won't she? Death will not take any more lives than he is meant to, not wanting to have to take so many young lives in a matter of hours in the first place? He will spare her, if she is meant to live, take her if she is not. What makes the difference whether she leaves or stays?
"Leave." he orders her, pointing once again to the exit. "Do not chance your life because you feel like it. This is dangerous, and you tempt Fate by remaining here."
"I thought Fate already had things planned out." she smirks, catching the flaw in his phrase, only to realize it might not be a flaw at all.
"She does, but she can still make changes up until one is killed. After that, I have to be involved." he answers matter-of-factly. "Which is why, mademoiselle, you must leave."
"I've made my choice, and I'm staying." she tells him, starting to walk away, only to have him catch her wrist. Not so tightly, rather just enough to make her stop for a moment. She turns her head, half-expecting him to be furious and to drag her out of harm's way. That is not what happens, though. He only looks her, his fierce expression turning into one of desperation. He knows what is to come, and she knows he is trying to spare her from it.
And then it all makes sense.
"I'm supposed to die here, aren't I?"
"Not if I can help it." he replies, his voice almost a whisper. His grasp on her wrist loosens, and she could easily escape his form if she wanted to. She can't, though, find the strength to pull away.
"You're defying Fate." Eponine states, her words sharp.
"Not entirely." la Mort answers, letting go of her wrist. Just as he opens his mouth to continue the explanation, there is the panicked shouts of "Sniper! On the roof!" and "Enjolras, look out!" before three gunshots ring out.
Eponine expects to feel pain, believing at least one of those bullets were meant for her. It would make sense, why he was telling her to leave quickly, but when she recovers from those moments of shock and checks herself for wounds, she finds no drops of crimson anywhere, feels no pain. She looks up towards where first shot came, only to see the sniper limply hanging, his rifle dangling off the roof. Maybe his bullet missed its mark, while those who could react in time shot him before he could have the opportunity to fire another shot.
It only takes her a few seconds more to notice la Mort has a hand on the left of his chest, and in the faint moonlight, she could see spots of dark crimson dripping onto the cobblestones.
His free hand grasps her wrist with a sense of urgency as he drags her into the shadows, out of everyone's sight. Clearly he did not want the others to see he was wounded, though she was not quite sure why. He was immortal, a bullet to the chest could not kill him, and with him being Death, she was almost certain he would not die. Death couldn't die, could he? If he could, then who was to replace him?
She shakes her head. No, he would not die, it would be impossible. Then again, with him being immortal, the impossible could happen. She thought back to the white candle whose molten wax turned red.
"There are some things that simply cannot be explained. Only shown."
This, though, this was different. This was not simply the wax changing color, rather a man bleeding out in front of her, if one could call Death a man.
She faintly recalls that same night when she collapsed in the snow, when he picked her up and carried her towards warmth. His skin was cold. He had no heartbeat. Anything that could have helped comfort her that night did not exist. Without a heart, there would be no blood, for what immortal has need of it? Their existence does not depend on it, not to survive. Seeing him bleed, watching crimson droplets turn his hand red, that shouldn't happen. He shouldn't be bleeding, he should be just fine.
But he isn't, not completely.
In the darkness of the shadows, she could see his face contort slightly in the moonlight's reflection. She could hear his breath coming in uneven gasps, and she watches him lean against the side of a building for support, as if he could no longer support his own weight. Such support only lasts for so long, though, and he collapses onto the ground.
"One…one wretched thing about this mortal form…" he starts, wincing from the pain in his chest. "It will act as a mortal form. It will scar, it will bruise, it will bleed. What happens may not kill me, but the pain, I do feel it."
He hisses as she tries to move his vermillion coat to get a better look at the wound, at least as much as she could with the moon above being her only source of light. She can hear the other men call out his name, noticing his absence, and as she is about to stand to call them over, he tugs on her sleeve.
"They cannot know." he says, glancing towards the Musain. She kneels down in front of him once more, attempting to examine the wound, but he leans away from her touch. She knows he is in a vulnerable state at the moment, and help is what he needs, but as she tries again, he moves slightly, trying to avoid her.
"Sit still." Eponine tells him gently, looking him straight in eye. "Let me help you for once, if you won't let anyone else will."
He reluctantly nods, flinching a bit when she carefully moves the fabric of his vermillion jacket and ebony waistcoat out of her way. He winces as her fingertips barely graze his blood-stained shirt, as she undoes his poorly-tied cravat and the laces of his shirt. As improper as this is, as it feels, it is the only way she can examine the injury.
The sight of blood doesn't concern her as much as the amount of it.
"Could you sit up for a moment?" she asks him, only to receive a glare in response. "I want to see if there is an exit wound."
He takes a deep breath before following her directions, and she assists him as much as she can, his full weight not on her. She cannot find any signs of crimson on the wall or ground behind him, nor can she see any holes or blood on the back of his clothing. She gently helps him rest against the wall, having reached her conclusion.
"No exit wound." she tells him grimly, and he nods in reply.
"It is nothing to fret over," he says, his words wavering from the pain. "I…I can continue…just…just fine…"
Eponine shakes her head, trying to figure out the truth in his words. He will live, she reminds herself, but will he be fit enough to continue on in the fight? From what she can tell, his strength is slowly fading away, as the night transitions from day at sunset. She watches his chest rise and fall with each breath, sees him grit his teeth from the agony the bullet is causing. No mortal man can live on without battling for his life while the bullet remains within him, whether from blood loss or infection, and though immortal la Mort may be, she is not sure if he can function properly while he still has a bullet in his chest.
"No, I do not think you can." she looks him straight in the eye, only to see the ice-like eyes bearing a hurting expression. Not from the pain, not from where the crimson liquid was dripping out of him. Rather, it was as if something she had said has hurt him more than the physical pain of the bullet, as if she stabbed him in the chest, as if she was the reason he was bleeding out upon the cobblestones.
His silence bothers her the most.
She expects him to make some argument, to continue the claim he can fight. She waits for him to tell her to leave, returning back to the conversation before he was shot. He was, and perhaps still is, trying to spare her from dying here, to prevent her from falling with the young men who do not likely know if they will last until dawn. He knows what will become of her in a matter of hours, perhaps even a matter of minutes. He knows what Fate has planned, but he wants to stop her from succumbing to it. The thing is, though, he cannot change what Fate has in store, lest there be consequences for his actions.
But why spare her? What makes her so significant for la Mort wanting to prevent her death? Why go through any trouble and risk the consequences to save her life? Wouldn't he want her to die, want her to join the ranks of the dead? Why extend the poor gamine's life of misery if it was only going to continue to be the same way?
"I have to go back and fight." she finally says, her voice quiet. His agonized eyes look at her in horror, and he takes hold of her hand, ignoring the pain in his chest.
"No." he tells her, his voice firm. "I cannot let you do that."
"If I am meant to die, then I am meant to die." Eponine says confidently, though on the inside, she is shaking. "You shouldn't stop something Fate planned, whether or not you think you should."
"The innocent should not die."
"Shadowed One, any innocence I had is long gone," she counters, fighting against the memories that took such a description away from her. "These men, they are, and yet you rallied them to a cause that is destined to fail."
"It was not my choice to make, mademoiselle, and that is something I have told you on numerous occasions." he replies, his hand loosening the grip on her wrist. "I am aware of the cost, the poor knowledge of an immortal, but if I can somehow spare one less from the bloodshed, there is less to add to the burden my shoulders carry."
"Why spare me, then, and not one of the others?" she asks, kneeling down in front of him. "Why not save Combeferre, Grantaire, Joly, or Courfeyrac? Surely these among others have those fearing for them at home, if they know of their whereabouts? My parents do not fear for me, care little for what becomes of me."
"What of your sister? Surely she will wonder, having not seen you for many months?"
She stiffens at those words, before noticing the trace of hurt, of desperation in his eyes once more. He truly wants her to leave, is more than willing to suffer whatever pain Fate will thrust upon him once this terror is over. More suffering for him to experience, beyond the pain from the bullet in his chest, beyond the agony of taking lives away for centuries that has caused his heart to turn to stone.
But why? Why suffer because of her?
"The pain will only last for so long, mademoiselle." she hears him say after a spell. "The physical pain, it will be gone before the sun sets…"
His words trailing off, the sky already surrounding them in darkness, it does not make things difficult for her to note it is not the literal day transitioning into night he is referring to.
"I will be weak for awhile, yes," he continues, and his voice is just barely stronger. "But not even weakness can prevent me from doing what I must."
She does not fight him on that point, for it is only a matter of time before he has a multitude of young lives to claim.
She does not try to stop him when he finally stands, yet at the same time she almost doesn't realize it, her thoughts busying her mind. He stumbles a bit as he tries to regain his stance, causing him to inadvertently put Eponine between him and side of the building, her back against the cold brick.
She looks at him in surprise for a moment, those steel-blue eyes staring straight back at hers. The pain in his eyes is clear, whether from the wound or from the knowledge of what is to come she is not sure of, but there is something else there as well. Sympathy? Warmth? Fear?
Without realizing it, she finds herself being drawn closer to him, leaning towards him ever so slightly. She barely notices that he does the same. Her eyes close, her head tilts to the side. She can feel his breath on her lips, and just as she is ready to give into the temptation, he pulls away sharply.
"No." she hears him say as her eyes open. "No, to do so would kill you."
She is tempted to argue that it would make little difference if he claimed her now or a few hours from now, but she realizes it is probably moot. If la Mort is trying to have her live for as long as he can, she should try to enjoy as much as she can the little moments she has left.
The frozen blue eyes meet that of amber, their usually harshness having melted. The preserving of her life, from the sealing encounter when she had slipped from the tree, all the way until now, and perhaps onward, it all makes sense. The thing is, she doesn't know how to respond upon making such a realization.
He speaks before she can do anything further.
"We should go back." There is a form of reluctance in his voice, whether is it because he is well aware of what is to happen shortly or because he has finally found the strength to stop arguing with her about her presence at the barricades, a part of her wishes she knew. Maybe he does not have the strength to argue any more.
They both return to the barricade in silence. He goes back to his comrades, who out of concern ask where he had gone, what happened, why he is covered in blood, and she returns unnoticed to her low spot on the barricade.
It is not long before the sound of footsteps on the other side of the barricade reaches her ears. She readies herself as she hears the loading of guns as the students prepare for the attack. La Mort is not too far from her, carbine in hand.
A short moment, she catches him looking at her, the expression on his face telling her all she needs to know. That this is it, this is when she dies.
Long before knowing who he truly was, she has always wondered what it would be like to die, to close her eyes and have them never open again. The pain, the suffering, all of that would cease. The breathing of the air within her lungs would never happen again, nor would there be the sound of her heart beating in her chest. Her body would no long serve a purpose, just another corpse lying in a grave. She would no longer be hungry and have to scavenge for scraps, or be thirsty and have to search for decent drinking water. No, there would no longer be a need for any of that. Nothingness, was all it would be.
The gunshots fly too soon.
She scrambles around the barricade, delivering gunpowder to whomever she noted needed it. However, it is just as she had passed some off to a man known as Feuilly does she notice Marius grab a barrel full of gunpowder, making towards the barricade with it.
She watches in horror as a soldier has a gun pointed directly at him, and without hesitation, she rushes towards them, Marius too distracted in grabbing a torch to notice the weapon aimed at his head. She takes ahold of the gun's barrel, away from Marius, giving him a few more seconds at least.
She does not have the chance to point the weapon away from her before the trigger is pulled.
She is quick to release her hold on the barrel before she begins her descent on the barricade, unaware of everything going on around her except for the pain she feels with the left side of her chest. The gunshots, the screams, the cries, she doesn't hear. Others falling, she doesn't see. Unaware that la Mort was just footsteps away.
She does not need to look down to know of the blood flowing out of her, does not move her hand to see it covered in crimson. She already knows. Slowly, ever so slowly, she can feel herself becoming weak as the seconds tick by, and wonders if anyone will notice her in such a state before her eyes close for the final time.
By the time she sits down at the bottom of the barricade, barely breathing, she realizes the gunshots have ceased, replaced by the praises and scoldings of men. Looking up, her vision slowly blurring, she makes out a man clapping Marius on the shoulder, while Combeferre scolds him about the many lives he put at risk. What he did, she isn't sure, but what he does next surprises her.
Towards her, he comes running, eyes full of worry, seemingly ignoring the other men around him as rain begins to fall.
"Monsieur, are you all right?" Marius asks, kneeling down in front of her. She doesn't respond, doesn't know how, but she somehow manages a small smile, trying to hide the pain. She does not stop him when he gently moves her hand away from her chest, allowing him to see the red liquid dripping out of her. She doesn't fight him when he removes her hat, recognition mixing with fear within his eyes.
"Eponine," he shakes his head, not trying to hide his concern. "You foolish, foolish girl…"
He turns his head, calling out for Combeferre or Joly, anyone who can help her, before sitting down beside her, one arm around the back of her shoulders while then other covers the hand over her wound. "You'll make it, Eponine, just hold on."
"Let it be." she manages to reply, hearing the footsteps of one the medics close by. She is not going to argue much, not when she can barely breathe… "There's no use for it."
"I am not leaving you." he says, looking her in the eye, the arm behind her pulling her closer before he places his chin upon her head. An attempt to hide the tears, she guesses. "Not now."
"Nothing…can…can hurt me…anymore…" her vision is slowly turning black, and she catches a glimpse of la Mort standing just a few feet away. His eyes are full of concern, while the rest of his face remains expressionless. "I'm safe…"
"Eponine…"
"Don't you fret, Monsieur Marius…" she manages to say, just barely able to breathe. "The pain…it'll be gone soon…"
She cringes and gasps from the pain, causing Marius to pull her closer. "I'm here."
"I know." Almost everything in her vision has gone black, except for the man in red in the center of her vision. Her breathing is coming in gasps now, and almost all her strength is gone. "Monsieur Marius?"
"Yes, Eponine?"
"Promise me…" She can barely speak, cannot see anything except la Mort, who only meets her gaze. "Promise me…that…that you won't die…"
"I can't—"
"Promise!" she cries, taking the hand that covers hers and gripping it tightly. She isn't so much speaking to Marius anymore, but Death himself.
La Mort gives her a curt nod, and she hopes it means what she thinks it does.
"…I promise…"
Those are the last words she hears before her eyes close for the final time.
Darkness. For what seems like hours, that is all she can see, as if caught in an eternal night that she can never escape from.
Is this all she will see, all she will know, for eternity? Pure darkness, in which not even shadows can appear? Is she trapped in the darkness forever, has been deemed one of the damned? Is there something she must do before she can continue on, whether it would be to Paradise above or to the flames below? Is she simply inbetween, where judgement has yet to be cast?
In the darkness, eventually, a light.
But not in the usual way.
"Eponine." she hears the familiar voice call from behind her, the first thing she has heard since she breathed her last. She turns, expecting to see that familiar form in raven-hued clothing, blond hair almost white, blue eyes like a frozen stream…
And that is exactly what she sees, except for the black wings behind him.
"Monsieur…" she attempts to string any words together, but they fail her.
He takes a brief moment to look behind him before returning his attention back to her. "He will survive, I promise."
She knows the unspoken words. "I would have rather saved you."
"We all have to die sometime, Shadowed One." she says, slowly walking towards him. "His will be much later than mine, but there will come a time where you will have to claim him, too."
"If Life will allow me." he replies, glancing up into the empty air, allowing her to catch a glimpse of light in his eyes from an unseen source. "but she will learn that we cannot keep all that we wish."
Eponine catches a sort of longing in his eyes, a sort that she can recall seeing in him on at least two occasions: the night they spoke of Apollo and Daphne, and the other just shortly before she was shot. She knows why this is—she is something he can never have, just as Apollo could never have Daphne.
"You do not have to fear killing me now." she says after a few moments of silence, the two of them now face-to-face as she takes his hands into hers. "Not any longer."
There is a slight smile on his face at those words. Small, but still a smile.
"You are not dead…not yet." he reminds her softly, brushing a piece of hair out of her face. "Your life, it does not have to end here. You could still go back."
She shakes her head, aware of what such a thing would entail, for him and for her. He hopes to keep her alive, and that is something she understands, but for her to go back to the land of the living, especially after the wound she received, the blood she had lost…It would be more suffering than living. That, and she is certain she has lived her life as far as it was intended to go, and not just by the judgement of Fate. She is not afraid of dying, she is not afraid of continuing her life. Her life is done, as Fate had woven, and as she intended it to be.
"What is there for me to return to, other than shadows?" she asks of him, not expecting an answer. "I've laughed and I've cried. I've lost hope and have had it returned. Shadowed One, I have done all the living I need to do. It is time for me to move on now, and let others live on."
He nods, and she embraces him, her arms wrapping around behind his neck. He is stiff to move at first, from either surprise or simply being touched, before she feel his arms around her. She doesn't know how long the pair of them remain like this, only that when she pulls away, she can feel one hand resting on the small of her back while the other is not too far from the back of her neck.
His eyes drift towards the ground, hesitating, contemplating, avoiding her eyes. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to let her go. After centuries, millenniums, someone finally managed to crack his heart of stone, someone who he could not hold onto for forever. He has probably spent months dreading this moment, and now, he has no choice but to take her away from Life, and potentially, away from him.
She doesn't know if she'll see him again after this, in the realm of the dead, in Heaven or Hell. She doesn't know if she will be going somewhere he can't follow. She may see those who he takes away after her, but never him. Immortal though he is, his occupation has limitations. The Angel of Death, she has known some may call him, does not necessarily mean he is able to stand the other angels who do not share the burden he bears.
This could very well be goodbye, and that is why he not acting so quickly.
"I won't see you again, will I?" she asks after several moments of this silence, her hands grasping his. "After I die…die completely…"
"Only if you wish it to be." la Mort replies sincerely, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "What one does once they are dead, is their choice alone, unless Fate has another plan. Simply because one is dead does not mean they wish to spend an eternity with Death."
"Oh." She understands. "You've been alone, then."
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
At this moment, she leans towards him, amber meeting sapphire, whispering, "No longer, monsieur."
With no hesitation at all, her lips meet his. One of his hands makes it to the small of her back to hold her, while the other makes its ways into her hair. With each passing moment, she finds herself growing weaker and weaker, even as her hand reaches his shoulder. Her physical form is almost no longer alive, her spirit remaining as they continue this heated embrace.
When they finally break apart, she finds she has no strength left at all before she collapses. He doesn't let her fall.
"Your strength will return soon." he tells her, his arms being the only things holding her up. She only nods curtly in reply, before noticing a flash of white in the corner of her eye. However, she does not have to turn her head too far to find out what they are.
Wings.
"And you can soar with the birds."
Her mind drifts back to their first meeting, when she had fallen from the tree, when he had told her the trees were for birds. Trees were for the birds, yes, but birds have wings. Falling is not what they do; they fly.
Alongside the raven, she will soon do the same.