Éponine Thénardier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jondrette) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thesphererp2021-02-04 02:39 am
jondrette) wrote in thesphererp2021-02-04 02:39 am
Éponine Memshare 2
CW: Blood, death, suicide
It was raining, a small reprieve to the July heat that beat down around them. Around her, there were noises, but like her vision they were fuzzy, just background noises. She raises her head with difficulty, looking around. With a dull ache pounding in her head, Eponine can make him out from across the yard.
“M’sieur Marius!” She called with what little strength she had.
The man, covered in blood and gunpowder stopped and looked about, then began to move again when she called out once more. “M’sieur Marius!” Coughing, she began to pull herself from the ground where she lay, dirt and blood mingling in the rain to create mud. It was difficult with one arm, but the thought of not giving him the letter propelled her forward. Perhaps it was too dark to see her. “At your feet.”
Marius looked down, his face twisted in the lamplight. She looked up, bathing her face in moonlight. “Do you not recognize me?”
“No.”
“Eponine,” she said, reminding him. He knew who she was, of course, because he bent to her side immediately, but it appeared her disguise of men’s clothing, hastily exchanged for her own chemise and skirt, had worked. But now that her hat had been knocked from her head, her long tangled hair tumbling down, it was clear she was a woman.
“How come you’re here? What’re you doing here?” Marius asked, bright eyes wide.
The question was funny to her. “I am dying.”
But it was anything but funny to Marius, and she remembers how disturbed he sounded when he cried out, realizing the blood on her shirt was her own, “You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room! They will attend to you there. I sit serious? How must I take hold of you in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God! But why did you come hither?” As he asks, his words turning into soup in her ears, he tries to hoist her into his arms. When she cries out, he stops.
“Have I hurt you?” In ways he would never know.
“A little,” she admits, not wanting to make him worry. She was dying, and she knew it. It was a miracle she had lived this long, and if she had survived tonight, she would have found another way to take her life. Suicides went right to hell, a mortal sin in her Roman Catholic faith. If she didn’t, her father would surely kill her. She remembered the look in his eyes, his threats. No, tonight was her last night on earth, and she was right where she wanted to be.
“But I only touched your hand!” Slowly, Eponine raises her hand, her arm shaking with the effort. In the light, she can see a dark hole where her palm should be. “What is the matter with it?”
“It is pierced.”
“Pierced?”
“Yes.”
“What with?”
“A bullet.”
“How?”
“Did you see a gun aimed at you?”
“Yes, and a hand stopping it.”
“It was mine.”
So he had seen her! He was here, concerned, and he would not forget her now. She had saved his life, and he knew it.
Marius shivers above her: “What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound; one does not die of a pierced hand.”
She shakes her head. “No- the bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on this stone.” Practical, she waited until he sits before she sets her head heavily upon his knee. “Oh! How good this is! How comfortable this is! There; I no longer suffer.” She would be able to die happy here, laying against the man she loved. She closes her eyes for a moment, but can no longer bear it and with great effort, turns her head to look at him.
““Do you know what, M’sieur Marius? It puzzled me because you entered that garden; it was stupid, because it was I who showed you that house; and then, I ought to have said to myself that a young man like you—” she stops and laughs, a crooked smile across her lips that barely reaches her bright, manic eyes, “-You thought me ugly, didn’t you?”- But she doesn’t care to hear him acknowledge the truth. She needs to speak now, in her last minutes. She has his ear, someone to listen to her, who will remember her, if only for a few minutes. The words come easy.
“You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade. It was I who led you here, by the way! You are going to die, I count upon that. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you, I put my hand on the muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die before you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here, no one saw me, no one picked me up, I was waiting for you, I said: ‘So he is not coming!’ Oh, if you only knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! Now I am well. Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I looked at myself in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the boulevard near the washerwomen? How the birds sang! That was a long time ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you: ‘I don’t want your money.’ I hope you picked up your coin? You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright, and it was not cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh! How happy I am! Every one is going to die.” She laughed again, her hand on her breast. She could feel the burned edges of skin where the bullet had gone through, feel the fresh waves of blood pouring out. She was pale, shivering against him. “Oh! It’s coming again, I am stifling!” Despite the shivering and the heat, she bit down at her shirt, tearing it open a bit more.
Across the yard, a voice called out, mimicking a rooster crowing for dawn. Following this, the soft voice of a boy echoed out: “En voyant Lafayette
Le gendarme répète:
Sauvons nous! sauvons nous!
sauvons nous!”
Recognizing the voice anywhere, she raised her head. “It is he.” She looks over at Marius. He can help. “My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me.” Gavroche had always had a knack for scolding his older sister. He looked out for her and Azelma, as she tried to for him. And that is precisely what she was trying to do. He could not see her. Not like this.
“Your brother?” Marius asked, “Who is your brother?”
“That little fellow.”
“The one who is singing?”
“Yes.” Sweet Gavroche. Below her, Marius began to move. “Oh! No! Don’t go away! It will not be long now!” She couldn’t bare to be alone right now, and she reached for him, grabbing on to his hand with her own nearly destroyed one, ignoring the dull pain that pulsed through her with every slowing beat of her heart. With some of her last strength, she began to speak again. “Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I— I have a letter in my pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post.— I kept it. I did not want to have it reach you. But— perhaps you will be angry with me for it when we meet again presently? Take your letter.”
They would die, all of them, and meet surely at Saint Peter’s gate. She was confessing her crimes, wiping her slate clean, so she would go to heaven free of sin, to meet with her love in a few moments time. No more than twelve hours.
She put his hand on her chest, where the inner pocket of her coat contained a letter. She put his hand in the pocket. “Take it.”
He took it gingerly, and she smiled at him. It was almost over now. “Now, for my trouble, promise me—“ she took a deep, awful rattling inhale.
“What?” Marius prompted her.
“Promise me!” She would not tell him until he promised her he would do it.
“I promise.”
“Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead— I shall feel it.” A small ask, but it took all she had. Her eyelids slid closed, her head heavy on Marius’ knee. She stilled, a darkness closing in around her. But at the last moment, some last bit of light, she opened her dark eyes, and whispered, “and by the way, m’sieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.”
She tried to smile for the last time.
[ooc: dialogue is vhugs. here is a copy of the chapter, here is a link to the musical number.]
It was raining, a small reprieve to the July heat that beat down around them. Around her, there were noises, but like her vision they were fuzzy, just background noises. She raises her head with difficulty, looking around. With a dull ache pounding in her head, Eponine can make him out from across the yard.
“M’sieur Marius!” She called with what little strength she had.
The man, covered in blood and gunpowder stopped and looked about, then began to move again when she called out once more. “M’sieur Marius!” Coughing, she began to pull herself from the ground where she lay, dirt and blood mingling in the rain to create mud. It was difficult with one arm, but the thought of not giving him the letter propelled her forward. Perhaps it was too dark to see her. “At your feet.”
Marius looked down, his face twisted in the lamplight. She looked up, bathing her face in moonlight. “Do you not recognize me?”
“No.”
“Eponine,” she said, reminding him. He knew who she was, of course, because he bent to her side immediately, but it appeared her disguise of men’s clothing, hastily exchanged for her own chemise and skirt, had worked. But now that her hat had been knocked from her head, her long tangled hair tumbling down, it was clear she was a woman.
“How come you’re here? What’re you doing here?” Marius asked, bright eyes wide.
The question was funny to her. “I am dying.”
But it was anything but funny to Marius, and she remembers how disturbed he sounded when he cried out, realizing the blood on her shirt was her own, “You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room! They will attend to you there. I sit serious? How must I take hold of you in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God! But why did you come hither?” As he asks, his words turning into soup in her ears, he tries to hoist her into his arms. When she cries out, he stops.
“Have I hurt you?” In ways he would never know.
“A little,” she admits, not wanting to make him worry. She was dying, and she knew it. It was a miracle she had lived this long, and if she had survived tonight, she would have found another way to take her life. Suicides went right to hell, a mortal sin in her Roman Catholic faith. If she didn’t, her father would surely kill her. She remembered the look in his eyes, his threats. No, tonight was her last night on earth, and she was right where she wanted to be.
“But I only touched your hand!” Slowly, Eponine raises her hand, her arm shaking with the effort. In the light, she can see a dark hole where her palm should be. “What is the matter with it?”
“It is pierced.”
“Pierced?”
“Yes.”
“What with?”
“A bullet.”
“How?”
“Did you see a gun aimed at you?”
“Yes, and a hand stopping it.”
“It was mine.”
So he had seen her! He was here, concerned, and he would not forget her now. She had saved his life, and he knew it.
Marius shivers above her: “What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound; one does not die of a pierced hand.”
She shakes her head. “No- the bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on this stone.” Practical, she waited until he sits before she sets her head heavily upon his knee. “Oh! How good this is! How comfortable this is! There; I no longer suffer.” She would be able to die happy here, laying against the man she loved. She closes her eyes for a moment, but can no longer bear it and with great effort, turns her head to look at him.
““Do you know what, M’sieur Marius? It puzzled me because you entered that garden; it was stupid, because it was I who showed you that house; and then, I ought to have said to myself that a young man like you—” she stops and laughs, a crooked smile across her lips that barely reaches her bright, manic eyes, “-You thought me ugly, didn’t you?”- But she doesn’t care to hear him acknowledge the truth. She needs to speak now, in her last minutes. She has his ear, someone to listen to her, who will remember her, if only for a few minutes. The words come easy.
“You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade. It was I who led you here, by the way! You are going to die, I count upon that. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you, I put my hand on the muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die before you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here, no one saw me, no one picked me up, I was waiting for you, I said: ‘So he is not coming!’ Oh, if you only knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! Now I am well. Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I looked at myself in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the boulevard near the washerwomen? How the birds sang! That was a long time ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you: ‘I don’t want your money.’ I hope you picked up your coin? You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright, and it was not cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh! How happy I am! Every one is going to die.” She laughed again, her hand on her breast. She could feel the burned edges of skin where the bullet had gone through, feel the fresh waves of blood pouring out. She was pale, shivering against him. “Oh! It’s coming again, I am stifling!” Despite the shivering and the heat, she bit down at her shirt, tearing it open a bit more.
Across the yard, a voice called out, mimicking a rooster crowing for dawn. Following this, the soft voice of a boy echoed out: “En voyant Lafayette
Le gendarme répète:
Sauvons nous! sauvons nous!
sauvons nous!”
Recognizing the voice anywhere, she raised her head. “It is he.” She looks over at Marius. He can help. “My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me.” Gavroche had always had a knack for scolding his older sister. He looked out for her and Azelma, as she tried to for him. And that is precisely what she was trying to do. He could not see her. Not like this.
“Your brother?” Marius asked, “Who is your brother?”
“That little fellow.”
“The one who is singing?”
“Yes.” Sweet Gavroche. Below her, Marius began to move. “Oh! No! Don’t go away! It will not be long now!” She couldn’t bare to be alone right now, and she reached for him, grabbing on to his hand with her own nearly destroyed one, ignoring the dull pain that pulsed through her with every slowing beat of her heart. With some of her last strength, she began to speak again. “Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I— I have a letter in my pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post.— I kept it. I did not want to have it reach you. But— perhaps you will be angry with me for it when we meet again presently? Take your letter.”
They would die, all of them, and meet surely at Saint Peter’s gate. She was confessing her crimes, wiping her slate clean, so she would go to heaven free of sin, to meet with her love in a few moments time. No more than twelve hours.
She put his hand on her chest, where the inner pocket of her coat contained a letter. She put his hand in the pocket. “Take it.”
He took it gingerly, and she smiled at him. It was almost over now. “Now, for my trouble, promise me—“ she took a deep, awful rattling inhale.
“What?” Marius prompted her.
“Promise me!” She would not tell him until he promised her he would do it.
“I promise.”
“Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead— I shall feel it.” A small ask, but it took all she had. Her eyelids slid closed, her head heavy on Marius’ knee. She stilled, a darkness closing in around her. But at the last moment, some last bit of light, she opened her dark eyes, and whispered, “and by the way, m’sieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.”
She tried to smile for the last time.
[ooc: dialogue is vhugs. here is a copy of the chapter, here is a link to the musical number.]
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I'm sure I'll see mine too, eventually.
[He knows he will. There's no way this world would spare him that knowledge.]
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Thank you. Although, Rey might be more upset about it than I.
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[She pauses for a moment, frowning.] what are you two? I don't fully understand your relationship.
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[He stops, unsure what to say next. It's true that he and Rey had decided that whatever they were didn't need to have a name like most of the people here had for themselves, but it did make things difficult in times like these.]
Complicated. Rey and I are connected through The Force.
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