Hey y'all! So today I felt like writing something depressing... so really it's no different from any other day ;) Anyway, enjoy!

**If you cry, then I have succeeded.

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables or any of the characters.

I Love Him

Éponine watches him. Marius, the man she loves. She watches him fight the National Guard, biting her lip in worry. If anything should happen to him, then I will die. She thinks, wincing as a bullet narrowly misses him. He does not seem to notice. Ah, but he intends to die. His lark has gone off to England, now he wants death. But he does not know that his death would cause mine, for I could never live in a world where he no longer exists. I love him so... But he does not know. He is oblivious, he loves his lark. She is all that matters to him, he no longer cares about me. But that's okay, soon we will both be dead... She jumps up as she sees a musket aimed at him. Marius only seems faintly aware. Éponine rushes over and grabs the muzzle of the musket and guides it over to herself. The guardsman pulls the trigger.

Agony. That's what she feels. Complete and utter agony. The bullet tears through her hand and then out her back, leaving behind pain that feels like a searing fire. Éponine gasps. She expected the pain, but this is more painful than she knew to be possible. The blood pours from her wound, quickly seeping through her shirt and staining it a permanent red. Blood gushes from the hole in her hand. She collapses to the ground. She finds it hard to breathe, she finds it hard to think. The pain is dizzying. Ah, but this is nothing. Marius is still alive, I'm fine... She gasps again. She convulses in pain. She clutches at her wound, wishing that the pain would go away. Every breath causes another wave of pain to crash over for her and she is suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that she will die. I am going to die, she thinks, oh... oh how strange! At least... at least there will not be any pain. Sweet death... She is shaking now. She no longer has any colour left, she is completely pale. Her life blood is draining out of her. A part of her notices that the fighting seems to have ceased for now, the rest of her is too absorbed in the pain. Rain starts to pour from the sky.

Marius walks right by her, he doesn't see her there, bleeding out. There is a puddle of blood surrounding her now.

"Monsieur... Marius..." she calls to him. He pauses, not quite sure if he's actually heard her or not. Éponine tries to be louder. "Monsieur Marius!" Now he's heard her. He looks around. "At your feet!" He looks down and he sees her. His vibrant green eyes widen in shock as he stares at his best friend, lying in a dark puddle of her own crimson blood at his feet. He kneels down quickly.

"'Ponine!" he exclaims. "Oh... oh God! The blood... it's everywhere! We need to get you some help, there must be something we can do! I can bring you to a room in the Café, they can dress your wounds! How can I move you so as not to hurt you! You'll be alright, 'Ponine, you'll be just fine. You'll–"

"I am going to die." she tells him. He winces at the words that he refuses to believe. Surely she could not die, not his 'Ponine. Not this young gamine that has always been so strong, no, surely she could not die! She convulses again in pain.

"How did this happen?" he asks, his voice no more than a whisper.

"I saw the musket aimed at you."

"I don't see how that is relevant." he says, not understanding what she is saying.

"Well I couldn't let you die, now could I?"

"'Ponine... you didn't..." he is horrified.

"Of course I did." she tells him. She winces as another wave of pain crashes over her. Marius jumps slightly, worried for his friend. This is all my fault. he thinks, she's hurt because of me... "Don't you fret." she whispers.

"'Ponine, isn't there anything I can do to help you?" he asks desperately. He cannot bear the thought of his best friend dying. Éponine smiles at him.

"Hold me." she says very softly. Marius obliges and he holds the poor girl in his arms. She smiles again, but he can see the pain in her eyes. Her pain is unsurmountable, but she still smiles. Her smiles are only for him, they've always only been for him. He is the only one that can make her happy. Everything seems brighter when she is in his presence. He is her light in the darkness. He is her raison d'être. "Do you know, Monsieur, that it bothered me when you went into the lark's garden? Silly, I know, since it was I that led you there..." He furrows his brow in confusion. She convulses again. He holds her closer and kisses her livid forehead, beaded with an icy sweat. She is fading away now, soon she would be gone. Marius' eyes fill with tears. "I love you!" she cries. His eyes widen. "I love you..." Marius comes to a realisation. How could I have been so blind! How could I have ever thought that I loved Cosette! he thinks, Éponine loves me... and I love her...

"'Ponine..." he whispers. He doesn't know what to say, so he kisses her. She kisses him back, filled with pure joy. He loves her! He loves her just as she loves him! Oh how wonderful she feels. The kiss represents everything she's ever wanted to say to him, every feeling of love she's ever felt for him. She's never been happier than she is in that spectacular moment. But the happiness is short lived. Éponine dies only moments after their lips touch. She dies smiling, finally loved by the man of her dreams. She dies happy, finally having gotten the only thing she'd ever truly wanted: Marius' love.

Marius is left holding her limp, dead body. Tears fall from his eyes. His best friend and the girl he loves is dead. He cradles her dead body. He feels so alone. He sees no reason to live.

He feels a sharp blade held to his throat. It is the sword of a guardsman who has sneaked over the barricade. He is barely aware of the blade cutting into his throat. His windpipe is severed. He dies, still holding Éponine in his arms. His blood drips down on to her, mingling with hers. They are both forever asleep. Neither will be there when tomorrow comes. But they are not the only ones to die.

First Prouvaire, then Bahoral, then Gavroche, Bossuet, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Joly, Combeferre, and then, the last to die, Grantaire and Enjolras. No one survives the barricade. The people do not rise, not then. The barricade is taken, the revolution has failed. Paris weeps for her loss, her tears wash away the blood in the streets and makes the flowers in the Luxembourg Garden bloom. Paris weeps for days. She does not stop until all of the revolutionaries are safely asleep in their beds of grass and dirt, but she is still in mourning.

The people have not stirred.

Was it depressing enough for ya?