A Midnight Sun Is Rising

The next time they meet, two years have passed and it is again winter.

Eponine’s feet find the familiar cracks in the pavement, spiraling out like dark galaxies carved under a dusting of star-bright snow. There’s a stillness to the city this morning, a warning creeping in with the dawn. It could be pretty here, she thinks. But misery has a way of staining the stone, a barely visible fleeting darkness mixed with rust and tears. It’s here, even under a coating of fresh snow, a prickling in her fingers and toes.

She passes the hours wandering. Old habits stick- her parents with their grimy bottles and sharp words, her daydreams and aimless feet. The Council Hall bell rings out the cold hours, an electric melody that doesn't quite fit. It is almost 3 o’clock when she hears them.

Shouts. Shouts of indignation, screams of rage, furious words cutting through the air like razors. Unusual for this part of the city, not quite in the slums and not quite out. Curious, she slips closer, edging through the alleyways and onto a broad street. Figures are crowded at the end, faceless shapes silhouetted against the hazy sun. They stand on a makeshift platform of wooden crates, features obscured by painted masks and hoods. Eponine moves closer, slipping into the crowd that surrounds them.

Within a few seconds she knows what it is. Even having never seen one, the words flowing from them form a clear narrative. A protest. These men are staging a protest.

Idiots.

The people chant along, raised fists blurring into streaks of colors. More masked men race through them, handing out pamphlets. The crowd quiets for a moment and her attention is caught by the apparent leader, a man with a scarlet hoodie and golden mask that catches the sunlight. Bright words rip from his throat, born upwards by their glorious nature, words of freedom. They transfix her and suddenly the world is held trembling in a web of what could only be described as hope, spun by this speech and these weary people.

A web can be a delicate thing, and protests have a habit of attracting attention. Police are streaming through the street before she knows what’s happening and all is chaos and a white rage of sound. Eponine fights her way through, memories of pristine white uniforms flying behind her eyelids. The protesters jump down from the platform, desperately calling out slogans of equality, but the Officials are closing in and they aren't going to get out of this one and it’s a pity because for a moment she believed in what they were saying.

Perhaps this is why she chooses to help them.

Off of the street there is an alley, and off of this alley there is an escape. She grabs the nearest protester, screaming a despairing “Follow me.” and unceremoniously yanking him behind her. They run, and she can feel rather than see the others following, winding through the raised fists and furious people as white blurs in the corners of her vision. She falls only feet away from freedom and strong hands lift her up from behind, breath a harried gasp against her neck. Then they’re through, into the shadows, and Eponine’s heart is thudding and breath a forgotten impulse and why, she wonders, why did she do that? All these years spent in darkness, and at a mere hint of sunshine she’s turned.

“Thank you.” One of the protesters grunts, still panting. His hood has slipped and she catches a glimpse of reddish brown hair. This and the green eyes, the innate kindness, spark a memory. A name slips out of her lips, unbelieving. “Feuilly?”

Those eyes widen beneath the mask. “Eponine?” And then they’re hugging, laughing, arms wrapped so tightly around each other they can barely breathe. The revelry is short lived, as the boy with the gold mask- for now she realizes they are all just boys- steps back the way they came. “Where’s Marius?”

Feuilly pulls away, turning back in anxiety. All the boys follow, hands reaching for the street, still flooded with Officials and resisting citizens. She yanks the golden boy back, hissing into his ear. “Don’t, idiot. It isn't safe. We shouldn't even linger here. We should go, now. I’m sure your friend is fine.”

He yanks his mask off, running slim fingers through his blond curls in frustration, but she’s frozen in place. It’s him. The rich boy from two winters ago, the one who managed to look so lost and so sure of himself at the same time. He notices the change in her expression, and surprise seems to flit across his features. He remembers too.

All thoughts of recognition are interrupted as a bumbling masked protester stumbles into the alleyway.

How? Is all she can think. All these faces, all these memories, how?

Green eyes. Freckles. A laugh, thick lips pulled back in a grin. A boy that reigns over her dreams even now.

Eponine starts to say his name, smiling already, lips parted in expectation.

“I thought you guys went this way, but I got lost in the crowd.” Marius grins. “Who’s your friend?”

“Eponine.” Feuilly steps forward, hand clasping Marius on the shoulder. The younger man looks at her with vague puzzlement, brow furrowing. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

There is a lump in her throat. She isn't sure how it got there, but she doesn't like it. She swallows, pasting the smile back on, blinking rapidly behind the curtain of roughly cut bangs. “No.” she says, though she isn't quite sure why. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Oh.” He nods. “Nice to meet you then.”

Eponine can’t manage a reply. Why would he remember her? They were young, and she was just some street girl. He was a Council member’s son. And for the hundredth time in her life, a dream floats away in ash, invisible particles dancing beneath the cursed sun, a mocking waltz of broken glass.

“We need to go.” She says again, tongue thick in her mouth, and pushes past the boys. The alley leads out into the ghetto, a crooked sketch of bare grey lines and misplaced strokes of black dirt. They follow without question. A presence forms at her elbow, and she glances back to find Golden Boy’s eyes boring a hole in her. Eponine glares back. He raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised, before speaking. “I did not mean to offend you in any way, mademoiselle.”

“You didn’t offend me.” A pause and then a cold, “Sir.”

He frowns, but there’s something in the lines of his mouth that betrays amusement. “I just wanted to thank you. For getting us out.” The boy swallows, and she sees there that he did not mean to put his friends in harm’s way, that he wishes he didn’t have to, but it must be done. He will fight, and he will bleed and he will die to pull apart this wretched place and replace it with a world where peace is carried within the hearts of the people, not Society syringes. She sees he knows. And those words come back to her, lofty words of liberty, and she wants once again to believe.

But she knows the price of believing.

They part near the nicer parts of the city. Eponine hugs Feuilly goodbye, and Golden Boy gives her a nod. That night her parents are too drunk to move, and she doesn't mind so much. No moving means no hitting. She wonders briefly why the drugs don’t work on them, but perhaps the alcohol has corroded their veins too much for that, or perhaps the rumors are true and some people really are immune. The night is spent in sleeplessness, kept captive by white walls long since turned dingy, and her fingers brush the paint in an attempt to shove the darkness away.

She knows the price of believing.

So why, then, can she not forgot that moment when all that filled her ears was right and good and so, so real, a dream startling in the beauty of possible reality?
*************************************************************

Seeing her again brings back memories he’d buried long ago. Enjolras doesn’t sleep that night, his pen spilling cobalt ink over wrinkled pages, drawing out words and phrases and worlds very far away and yet living under his fingertips.
*************************************************************

Eponine follows Feuilly to a meeting two weeks later.

She hadn't planned on it, not really. This sudden leap of faith has caught her off guard, and she’s hesitant to react on it. Even so, when she sees a familiar shape hurrying, head bowed, into an old café called the Musain, she darts in behind.

They are all gathered there in a back room- a bit of maneuvering around the manager, and she’s in. Golden Boy-who she learns later in the night is Enjolras- stands on the table and shouts a brief speech, hands outlining the familiar bright universes that his words fill. She loves it. She loves believing, if just for a split second. Marius is there too, but Eponine finds her eyes drawn more often to Enjolras, and her heart aches less in the presence of a cause.

She doesn't speak up until the third week. They’re outlining plans for a large scale protest in the center of the city, and every eye is trained intently on the maps. Combeferre is discussing the potential of discovery and punishment, of the large inventory of extremely advanced technology and weaponry they should expect the Society to possess, when she cuts in.

“You really don’t know much, do you?”

They all glance up, surprised.

“The Society doesn't have all that crap.” She continues, standing from her usual darkened corner. “They just want you to believe they do. The truth is, the Society’s going broke. Haven’t you noticed? Things are falling apart. They barely have enough resources to keep the city going, let alone track down some petty annoyances like you.”

Enjolras waves a hand for her to continue, face blank.

“The drugs they use to control us have been more and more diluted for years now. People are starting to become immune. Before long, they won’t hold any sway over us.”
A childlike excitement flits over his face before burying itself beneath his eyes. “Immune.” He looks up at her, brows furrowed. “This could reduce the effectiveness of any chemical weapons. The Society has administered its own demise.”

The room is suddenly filled with voices raised in anticipation, a great tumultuous clamoring of hope. Enjolras meets her eyes across the room.

They share a smile, melding fire and shadows into silvery light, into bright futures and equality and people born without the confines of class, into a weapon that will sever the chains of humanity forever.

Into revolution.