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Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2013 22:17:30 GMT -5
The steady beat of the drums resonated in Combeferre’s ears as the funeral procession marched down the street. The bright uniforms of the soldiers accompanying the hearse were a stark contrast to the coffin, which was draped in black. If Combeferre were fully focused on the actual funeral, he might have felt anger at the sight of the people’s champion receiving a funeral under the direction of the state he had opposed, but the scholar was not focused.
He was still working out the fact that the woman he loved was in love with another—Marius of all people—and the other man did not return her affections, rather foolishly. He would give anything to be in the law student’s place. The thing that angered him the most was the fact that he did not even seem to be aware that Eponine loved him. He was not angry at her, nor was he sorry he had ever loved her. The only thing he was sorry about was that Marius did not see her as he did.
But none of that mattered because today was his last. He did not want to hope for death, but really, what kind of life would he have if he did survive? He’d be a doctor, yes, and perhaps a professor, but he would never be happy. He could never be happy with anyone else so long as she walked the earth.
That did not mean he would hurl himself in front of a gun barrel to end his own life, it just meant that he was rather indifferent to his own survival. He would fight for his friends and his country, but survival was not one of his priorities. He was not afraid of becoming a martyr, in fact, he might even have welcomed it. He wondered if she would miss him if he fell—she would mourn all of them. Especially him, he thought acerbically. It was cruel of him to get irate—he couldn’t help whom he loved and neither could she, therefore he dismissed the thought and redirected his attention to the funeral.
Enjolras had shouted something and was waving a flag. Combeferre yanked his hat over his head crookedly and sprinted to the front of the hearse, grabbing the reins of one of the horses and cooing to it gently. He was reminded briefly of his boyhood in Normandy—he was not a particularly good horseman, but they were fascinating creatures. The horses he had ridden always seemed to like him, and this one was no exception. He stayed at the animal’s side, ironically guiding the funeral procession as Les Amis began to surround the coffin.
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Post by EPONINE THENARDIER on Jun 26, 2013 22:24:32 GMT -5
Eponine shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, making sure her hat was pulled low over her forehead and tucking her hair up one last time. The bindings on her chest chaffed against her skin and the coat and boots she wore was a few sizes too big for her small form. The belt at her waist cinched the trousers tightly above her hips and she had to roll up the legs to keep them from dragging in the mud. But it all came together to create the illusion of a young working man, turning out for the funeral of the great LeMarque. As she shouldered her way through the crowd, moving closer to the sounds of drums, she thought back over the previous night. So much had happened, it seemed like a lifetime away rather than just mere hours.
How could she have been so stupid? Combeferre had come to her, scolding her for risking her life with Mylene to bring them powder. The frantic worry in his eyes had made her bite back the first few teasing remarks that came to her mind. She had wanted to tell him she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. That she and Mylene had hardly been in any danger. That he was welcome to try their ruse, but he'd have to borrow a corset as hers wouldn't fit him. The kind of jesting she had become accustomed to between herself and the Amis. But the look of intense fear and even greater relief on his face had shut her up before anything could come out.
And what had come next had come as a complete surprise. Eponine had come to terms with the fact that in her life, she was not likely to hear genuine words of love from any man, without strings attached. And yet, Combeferre had pulled her aside, spilling out a heartfelt profession in a quiet corner of the room. And she didn't know what to do, to say in response. She had just stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form up the words. She should have known, should have pieced together the looks she'd find him stealing at their lessons, the blushing and stammering. She was usually so good at reading people, but she had missed this entirely. Why? Eponine knew why, and so did the world. Marius. And he had pulled her away before she could answer Combeferre, frantic for her to find his beloved Cosette. And she had gone with him. Of course, she had. But the look of hurt in Combeferre's eyes as she apologized and left with Marius would be forever burned into her heart.
And that's why she had stolen some of 'Parnasse's clothes and made her way to the square that morning. Because she knew now. Marius was never hers to lose. She'd never have his love, and in some ways, she had never really loved him at all. She had loved the man she made him in her head, the man that walked with her at night and held her close when the rain began to fall. She loved the future she had made for them in her dreams, the day he took her hand and led her out of the gutters and into his life. That illusion was not Marius, and it never would be. But Combeferre's gentle smiles, his kind eyes, those were real. The way he blushed when he realized he had complimented her, the times she would catch him staring at her as she craned over one of his books. The way her pulse would quicken when his hand brushed hers. That was real. Against all the odds in her life, his love for her was real. And she had lost it through her own stupidity. She had hurt him in a way that she was sure he'd never forgive her for. And that's why she was here.
Spying a familiar head of dark curls, she stepped up behind Courfeyrac, eyeing the crowd around her for the rest of her friends. Her gaze settled on Combeferre, across the street, dashing in his bright blue coat. His face looked drawn and cold, like he had not slept all night. It pained her heart to see him this way. She had to set things right. But she could only do that if he survived. So when Enjolras leapt forward, shouting and waving his banner, rallying the Amis, Eponine rushed forward with the crowd. The bright blue of Combeferre's coat stood out against the black and browns of the citizens, a beacon for her to follow. And follow she did. She fell into step a few feet behind him, watching him guide the horses through the procession. The Amis were climbing the hearse behind her, shouting and crying out to the people who surrounded them.
Eponine stole a glance for a moment, just to be sure Marius was still alright. She was surprised to find he and Enjolras had drawn weapons. She whirled around to see the Guard had surrounded the crowd, guns leveled at them. Her throat tightened as she saw Combeferre pull a pistol from his jacket, standing out in front of the hearse. He was completely exposed, no cover to hide behind. If they decided to open fire, he would be the first to fall. The silent seconds ticked away, the tension growing thicker, each side waiting for the other to make the first move.
Then a crack sounded and the horse next to Eponine bucked fearfully at the sound as a sharp pain exploded through her chest. Strange, she thought. I didn't think I was close enough for it to kick me. It was only then she became aware of the screams around her and the ground rushing up to meet her as her knees buckled.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2013 22:47:51 GMT -5
For a few moments, he forgot all about the conversation he had had with Eponine. Enjolras and the others had started yelling, and the people attending the funeral responded supportively. Red flags and tricolor flags waved triumphantly. The enthusiastic voices of the people filled the air. They were doing it—they were really joining their protest. His doubts began to fade away and he threw his fist in the air with a cheer of his own.
The excitement only lasted momentarily. Even if he was not trying to think about her, which he wasn’t, she still always found a way into his mind. After all, she was the reason he was so devoted to this in the first place—she and others like her. If he met his end today, he would have died for a purpose, that purpose being to give the abased a better life.
He cared little about his own life. He knew that his friends would need him, since he had medical training, which was why he was not looking for death. But if the bell tolled for him, he would not fight it. In many ways, he was perfectly ready to die. He had told Eponine the truth, and he would go to his grave with no regrets. At least she knew that he loved him. That was all he wanted, for her to know that. His conscience was clear.
The shouting promptly stopped when cavalry and cuirassiers and foot soldiers of the National Guard assembled in the marchers’ path. “Easy, easy.” He stroked the horse’s nose and then let go of the reins, striding toward the front of the crowd calmly, withdrawing his pistol from his belt.
He took a deep breath, aiming it at one of the soldiers. He wouldn’t fire unless they did—none of them were supposed to. There was a nerve wracking silence for a few moments, and then a shot was fired, cutting said silence like a knife through butter.
His hand went to his chest instinctively, thinking that he had been hit. After all, he was the easiest target, and he could feel so many of the Guardsmen’s eyes on him. However, he appeared to be in perfect health. Maybe no one had been hit. Horrified shrieks and screams filled the air, contradicting his hope.
His cerulean eyes fell upon a crowd gathered around a fallen boy, and the medical student dashed past the hearse. “Move! Move! I’m a doctor!” he shouted as he pushed past people when necessary. His eyes widened when was close enough to realize that it was not a boy who had been shot.
“Eponine! Oh God, no. No, no, no…” He knelt down next to her and shrugged off his coat, holding it against her bloodstained chest. “You’re not going to die on me. Please, don’t die on me.” There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask—why was she here? Why was she disguising herself? But none of those questions seemed even remotely important. “I’m going to patch you up, do you hear me?”
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Post by EPONINE THENARDIER on Jun 26, 2013 22:50:01 GMT -5
All around her there was chaos, but it seemed so faraway to Eponine. The screams that did reach her ears sounded so distant. She was vaguely aware that she was laying on her back in the street, people either crowding around her or fleeing from her side. Had she fallen when the horse had startled? Where was her cap? She had to find it or her disguise was ruined. If anyone say her, her long wavy hair would give her away, and her friends would send her off. And she couldn't go. She had to stay and make sure they all came out of this alive, that Marius made it back to Cosette. That Combeferre understood that she was willing to give them a chance.
Combeferre. That sound, that was a gunshot. Was he alright? He had been out front when it sounded, but the horse had knocked her back before she could see what had happened. She struggled to move, to get to her feet, but her body didn't respond. It was as if weights had been tied to each of her limbs and set on her chest. Even lifting her head was too much effort. Her whole body seemed detached, wrapped in cloth and muffled from the outside world. Her vision blurred and became hazy as people rushed by her in slow motion, their shouts echoing in her ears. Her arms tingled and she couldn't feel her feet anymore. Save for a warmth spreading outwards on her chest, she didn't feel much of anything. Except suddenly very tired. Why was she so tired?
She was just about to close her eyes, desperate for a bit of rest, when suddenly a head of blonde hair swam in her vision, followed quickly by blue eyes, wide with recognition and fear. He had found her after all. Her disguise hadn't worked. He cried out her name, the first clear thing she had heard since the shot. He looked so scared. Why was he so frightened? Was he alright? Were any of the Amis hurt? Please don't be angry. She opened her mouth to speak, to beg his forgiveness for her foolishness, and was set upon by a chest wracking cough. She felt the warmth that had settled on her chest move up her throat and tasted the all too familiar coppery taste of blood, her blood. Her foggy mind slowly began to piece everything together. The gunshot, the pain in her chest followed by a serenely detached feeling, the fear and pleading in Combeferre's voice. So she hadn't been kicked by a horse after all. That bullet hadn't hit any of her friends or gone wildly off into empty space. Instead it dug its way deep into her chest, piercing cloth and skin and muscle on its destructive path. She fought back against the encroaching darkness to look down at her shirt, finding it stained bright red. Brilliant blue filled her vision, the same blue she had followed just moments earlier, and she realized her had covered her with his coat, pressing it firmly to her chest. She wanted to tell him to stop, not to ruin his coat. He loved that coat, so did she. It brought out his eyes when he wore it.
He begged her not to die, pleading as if it could change what had happened. But Eponine had seen enough death in her short life, enough men with their blood spreading across the ground around them, to know that begging didn't work. She was already cold from the heat seeping out of her chest, despite the warm June sun beating down on them. She was dying, she knew that. She wasn't sure how much longer she had, before either death took her or the Guard charged in, running the revolutionaries to their barricade, but she desperately didn't want him to leave her. He promised to patch her up and for a moment she wanted to scold him for making promises he couldn't hope to keep. Her soft brown eyes looked up at him as the world began shrinking to a pinpoint, to just the two of them in the middle of the street. She had so much to tell him, a lifetime's worth, and only mere moments to get it all out. How could she tell him that she had realized she never truly loved Marius? That it was just a childish infatuation. Could she tell him that the thought of the times they had shared, just the two of them, had brought her so much joy? She wanted to say that she regretted not telling him last night, when he had pulled her aside, that the words he had said, the life he had promised her, was more than she ever could have dreamed possible for a girl like her. She wanted to apologize, to tell him that the hurt she had caused him broke her heart more than anything in her life. That if they had both survived, she would have gladly taken a chance and let him into her heart, if he would still have her, if he still wanted her. How could she convey so many thoughts, with each second bringing the end that much closer?
Another tremor shot through her body and she coughed again, feeling a little blood leak from the corner of her mouth. Eponine felt his arms wrap around her, cradling her frail form and it brought a soft smile to her face. She focused all the feelings, all the regret and pain and hope and love she could gather from her battered body and locked her eyes with Combeferre's blue ones. She knew her time was running out, but she couldn't find her voice. All she could manage to do was mouth, 'I'm sorry...' Then the darkness overtook her, pulling her down one last time, and her head fell back on his arm, her strength abandoning her, leaving her staring glassy-eyed at the cloudy sky.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 26, 2013 23:18:44 GMT -5
There was so much blood—too much. She had lost too much for him to even dream of saving her, but he kept up the pressure, running through the procedures in his head. He needed to stop the bleeding, then, once it was stopped, see if he could take out the bullet. He hated himself for his objective view of her wound, even though, as a doctor, that was his duty, the view things objectively. He could not do his duty completely without thinking of her and the fact that she was dying.
No. No she couldn’t die. She was so young, too young. She was unarmed. Why had they shot her? She had done nothing wrong! “It should have been me…” he choked out, already feeling his eyes fill with tears. He refused to cry—he had to be brave, to pretend, at least, that he could fix this, even though he couldn’t. But she already had an expression of resignation on her face, as if she knew as well as he did that she would die.
He knew that nothing he could do could stop that, and it did not just anger him, it broke him. How could he live knowing he had failed as a physician, failed in general, to protect her? How could he live without her in his life? “Please, please I love you…” he murmured helplessly. She opened her mouth to speak and he wanted to tell her to save her strength, even though by now it would make no difference. She started coughing up blood and Combeferre cradled her delicately in his arms. In the back of his mind, he realized that this was the first and only time he would ever hold her in his arms.
Eponine finally did speak, and when she did, it was an apology. Combeferre shook his head frantically. “No, you have nothing to…Ep..Eponine!” He shook her needlessly—her eyes were permanently focused on his. Those beautiful eyes that had rendered him speechless were lifeless now. His resolve broke and he did cry, holding her against his chest. She didn’t deserve this. Why couldn’t it have been him? It should have been him!
He didn’t know how long he had sat there, wracked with grief, but eventually he tenderly reached down to close her eyes a final time before daring to kiss her forehead. When he looked up and wiped his face, his eyes fell upon a young man, no more than twenty, holding a smoking rifle and wearing a National Guard uniform. The man was younger than him, and looked terrified, but Combeferre, in his rage, didn’t notice or care. He gently laid Eponine’s head down on his coat and picked up his pistol, firing it at the man. It struck him in the chest, and he staggered backward. The man was clearly beaten, but Combeferre wasn’t finished.
“She was an innocent woman!” he screamed in fury, grabbing the dying man by the scruff of the neck and hitting him over the head with his pistol. He pressed the barrel to the sobbing Guardsman’s temple and pulled the trigger. He dropped the body to his feet, breathing heavily and eyes bloodshot from crying. His act of vengeance brought him no satisfaction. He doubted anything ever would fill the hole in his heart. The man had killed her and consequently him, for he would never truly live again.
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