On A Wave Born, Heart Afire
Summary: Formerly a daughter of the ocean, Éponine, smuggler extraordinaire, finds herself shipwrecked and the prisoner of an ancient order and a husband she never wanted. But perhaps she can learn that even water burns when met with fire. E/E dystopia AU.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the weirdness in this fic.
AN: Where this came from, I don't know. I have a vague recollection of listening to Tveit sing "Hero and Leander" and that's what got this started.
Dedicated to Sabrina (don't worry, this will eventually have smut!), and this wouldn't have been possible without the help and cheerleading of Christine and Mary.
Part one:
She is not in love with him, not in love with the beautiful manboy manning the lighthouse on the shore of her country. She appreciates his light when she sails her little ship in the night, hoping no one will catch her before she delivers the medicine her little brothers so sorely need. She sees his silhouette set against the darkness and she sighs because she can almost picture him in the glow.
He is sunshine and light while her life is lived under the pale glow of the moon. He is fair while she is dark, yet he is the Hero to her Leander, her safe haven across this open sea and the light that guides her safely home.
Sometimes she wonders if he knows; if such an upstanding citizen guarding the lights at night would want to leave the light burning for a creature such as she, living of thievery and other crimes. He is a part of the Order of the Guardians and she has denounced any kind of order, rejecting it a long time ago to live a life of crime.
Her nightly visits to her siblings have gone unnoticed so far, and his light helps her keep it that way. She knows the sea as much as one can. Her rise and fall, her ebbing and flowing in these treacherous currents that have claimed many men. But she is woman and she will never fall prey if her Leander shines his light upon her.
Then, one night, the light does not shine.
The cruel shores are no longer kind to her and she goes under when her little ship, her Jondrette, hits the rocks. The merchandise is gone, either washed ashore or drowned, and it is that she is most angry about when she finds herself waking up in the temple of the Order, naked except for a pile of blankets covering her clammy skin.
"Why I ought to file a complaint," are her first words, spoken with a voice hoarse from disuse. "Where are my clothes? What happened?"
There is so much white and so much marble, just what she expected of a temple of the Order of the Guardians, and it all hurts her eyes. She pulls the blankets and sheets even closer to her, shielding herself from the entirety of the Order – at least it seems that way, with the amount of men currently surrounding her. Men of all ages, from boys who have only just been accepted to old man leaning on sticks, they all stare as she is laid near bare in front of their eyes. She is left vulnerable and small.
"Hero," she finds him with her eyes, and she knows that it is he.
"You do remember," the man standing next to him starts to smile. "Enjolras found you, and you were barely breathing, milady. He was your hero."
The manboy has blue eyes and he looks near golden like the sun in the traditional red garb of the Order – she can now see he is more man than boy, looking as if he is merely a few moon cycles ahead of her. He is tall, it seems, since most of the men barely reach his shoulder, and his eyes are the color of her beloved sea – ranging from blue to grey to almost green; going from cold to a safe harbor within seconds.
"Might I be permitted to be clothed?" she asks then.
She would like to talk to her Hero, or hero, in person without a hundred men in red watching her every move. She might not be scared of the Order, but she knows not to reveal any weakness in front of these men. Guardians might be thought of as the silent knights of the country, but she has seen more shores than this and knows better than to worship anything or anyone to that extent.
"Milady," the talkative man hands her a white robe.
White, the color of the uninitiated – she knows her lessons and she remembers them well. She nods gratefully, even though she knows the color is just another reminder of her worthlessness in the eyes of society. Still, she would rather wear white than the black of criminals, so she keeps mum and watches the men walk away.
"Enjolras," she calls after her Hero. "Will you not stay?"
The manboy flinches and stops in his tracks, and he is rather more resentful of her request than she would have wished. Still, she knows the law – a life for a life. Her life is now his to do with as he wishes, so she covers herself in white and demurely lowers her head while she attempts to figure out a way to escape what is sure to be a dreadful existence of orders and duties and pretending to want what he wants from her.
"Pray tell," he follows the rules as well. "What be your name, milady?"
"My name is Éponine, milord," she speaks and stands up in her white gown, head down.
Now that he knows her name, he can ask her life and she will have to give it. He must keep her life in whatever way he chooses. She can no longer be trusted with it, apparently, and he is now there to safeguard her every move and decision until she can no longer breathe in this cold and stifling temple.
The cold has already raised the skin on her arms, and she longs for the relative warmth of the blankets. Still, his response is forthcoming and she must wait for it, as any woman in white must. A man in red will speak his words and a woman in white will listen.
"Are you healthy, milady?" he follows the lines provided for him by tradition.
"I am healthy and strong, milord," she has no choice but to reply.
Her ocean shines in his eyes, deadly and dangerous, and she longs to drown herself in them rather than to face him and her future head on. She may have been taught to respond, but her instinctive disgust of the tradition will shine through eventually and he will be forced to use her life up at once. She cannot fight a hundred men.
Well, she cannot fight a hundred men and think to live. She must live, for there are four souls in a cabin by the sea depending on her. What must they think now that the medicine has not come and her return is still forthcoming? She hopes that her sister has remembered to scour the coast – per agreement, if she does not return in time, her sister is supposed to find the medicine in the wreckage on the shore.
"Will you wear blue for me, milady?" the man with the ocean eyes asks.
"I would be honored, milord," she is forced to reply.
Only she would be anything but honored by wearing his blue. She has turned to the ocean to avoid a man's blue – the coolness of that color killing the warm temperament of the sea in her heart. She is a woman of the water, not a woman of the fire that used to light her way. Fire burns when she gets too close, and her new lord and keeper is a man of fire above all else. She will burn without an ocean to keep her afloat.
She pleads with him with her eyes, begging him for something she cannot properly articulate. She needs fresh ocean air in her lungs and the salty seas on her skin to feel alive – and his ocean eyes will not keep her long.
The ritual complete, he reaches for her hand, to lead her to their next destination. While there are no other men in red in sight, she would be a fool to think that they are not watching her every move. She will never be safe unless she becomes Hero's woman in blue – no, Enjolras. His name is Enjolras. He is not her Hero.
"Leander," is the only word he manages to say to her.
It is only a whisper in her ear, a word that is meant to be spoken against her flesh instead of being overheard by men with canes and sticks. It is the first sign that reveals her Hero rather than the man in red. He might not have known her as his Leander, but he understands somehow. So she lets him guide her impatiently towards the small room in the temple – the room where white becomes blue.
His hand is warm in hers, and she relishes in the only source of warmth that will be provided to her until the ceremony is over. He is responsible for everything about her wellbeing now, and that includes her temperature. A small shiver wracks her frame as she thinks of being kept and contained, and her Hero stops them in their tracks.
"Are you cold, milady?" he sounds too concerned for her, a mere woman in white.
"If you think so, milord," she gives the required answer.
She hates herself, so pliant and good to this man who by all rights is nothing more than a tyrant and slaver in red. Her Hero is pulling her into the ocean and watching her drown – and he is not following her into the deep blue sea.
He looks frustrated and helpless rather than pleased by her perfect answer, but he starts them moving again, his left hand in her right. She notices no difference until his fingers start softly stroking her hand, trying to keep her warm even though he is not allowed to touch more of her than her hand until the ceremony is complete.
"Enjolras," the man in multiple colors halts them as soon as they enter the room.
The man is old, but he exudes power, since he must have a high position – he is allowed to wear some purple clothing. She will find no help here.
"She shall be my lady," her Hero's voice is strong now.
"Are you certain, my boy?" the old man asks.
There are other options for him, she knows that. He has rights to her after saving her life, but there are other ways for him to use his power over her. He could kill her where she stands – the wasteful choice – but he could also use her strength and life in any kind of job he pleases – the common option. Most people would choose having a fresh servant or slave over binding themselves to someone they hardly know.
Her Hero is no common man, she is sure of that now.
"I shall hold her and keep her guarded," Enjolras starts his vow rather than to affirm his surety in any other way. "She shall be my lady for as long as we live, and no other than she will wear my blue. As white turns to blue, red will keep us."
His deep voice remains strong and does not crack even once. There is no hesitation, and it is as if he has practiced these vows a hundred times before in his head just to make sure that there was no doubt that he wanted this.
"Red will keep me," she repeats, her only part in this farcical ceremony.
She sounds hoarse and rough in comparison to his strong and cultured voice, but she pays no mind to that. The thing that she will pay mind to is the look in her Bonded's eyes as they both wait for the man of power to accept the ceremony as completed. There will be nothing unless his permission and word of acceptance is given.
"Red will keep us all," the man in power finally finishes the ceremony.
That is her Hero's sign to wrap himself around her, signaling his ability to hold her and keep her. The old man ties their hands together – his left to her right – only to be loosened in the privacy of their chambers. There are other things that must be loosened as well in those chambers and she is terrified.
"You may leave," the old man is almost grinning.
He would like leaving helpless young maidens tied to a man like that. She thinks her dark thoughts as her Bonded leads them out of the room, and she has to follow or risk being dragged along with him in a most undignified way. So she follows like she never has before, through the endless labyrinth of hallways and corners and the never-ending white and red and more white and more red. She is lost before they even get into the right wing of the building – her last way out is to find a window and jump.
The rocky shores will not welcome her if she does, so she promises herself to stay in the temple and think of safer ways to get back to her siblings. She can fool her Hero long enough; she is certain of her skills that will make her able to play his loving Leander.
"These are my chambers, milady," her Bonded directs her to the chambers in a secluded corner in this wing. "I hope you find them to your liking."
She does not explain to him that there is nothing to find in these rooms that could ever be to her liking now that she has to be apart from her siblings, because she knows that he will not understand. This boy of the Guardians will never have known the pain of watching someone die because the medicine was late or just never coming. He has always had enough coin in his pocket to keep anyone he chose alive.
"Thank you, milord," she has to follow the words of old.
There is no way for her to escape or to stray from his side, so she lets him lead her into his chambers, following meekly for the first time in her life. She prays for the first time; begs the Gods old and new that he will not be cruel in his needs.
He closes the door behind them with his right hand, and she takes the time to stare at the room that will have to be her new home for as long as it takes her to think of an escape. There is red in the room; the window coverings and sheets are the deep shade of burgundy that she has grown to hate. Still, the bed is made of a beautiful dark wood and the sitting area is done entirely in ocean shades that remind her of home as well as of his ocean eyes. Somehow he carries her home inside of him.
"I do apologize, Leander," he speaks, because their words are safe inside these walls.
"Why would you do this?" she has to ask.
There were many more options open to him, and these options would have served him better than to be forced to take her on as his woman for the rest of their lives. She cannot imagine that he would want to take a stranger in and keep her as his – she does not want to be his anymore than he could wish for her to be his.
"You are the sister of Gavroche," her Bonded stuns her with those words. "He visits the Nightfire sometimes, and he always looks for the same ship. Your ship."
Her little brother's sense of right and wrong leans so interestingly skewed that she knows telling him to stay away from the Order is no use. He will do as he pleases, and since men are encouraged to do this from a young age, nothing a woman in white tells him will make any sort of difference. Women in white are not supposed to be heeded.
"You know who I am," she is still unsure of what that means.
"I pulled you from the wreckage of the Jondrette," Enjolras now deserves to be called by his personal name rather than by his title. "I told the Order you simply washed ashore."
So he did save her life! He just saved her from more than just death. He saved her from the fate worse than death, the fate of having to wear the black until her death. Wearing the black means that she can be hurt or killed at any time.
She is safer as she is now, wearing a man's blue out of necessity.
"I owe you everything, milord," she almost respects him now.
"Behind these walls, you will not owe me anything, Éponine," he vows.
His personal vows are so different from the ones he was forced to make before, but the cadence of his voice is just as strong and sure as it was before – and now she is starting to grasp that is just what he sounds like when he makes a promise. The big words with too much meaning hang in the space between them, and scatter like dust when she pays too much attention to them. She shakes her head, trying to clear her mind.
"However, the second I step outside," she lets herself trail off there.
She knows full well exactly how limited her life is going to be from now on. There will be no journeys outside unless she is going to see her Bonded when he works at the Fire – she can bring him his meals like a good woman in blue would. She can wash and clean their robes and keep their chambers immaculate, but she will not be able to get a hold of another ship to keep her side business going. There are people who need medicine that will not be able to receive the treatment they need without her!
"I do apologize," he places a hand on her arm and she shrugs him off. "I thought that being Bonded to me would be more pleasant than being forced to be a slave to the Order, so I made my wish known without consulting you. This was not my intention."
These apologies arrive too little, too late, as apologies are prone to do. So does she have to accept that this stranger really meant the best for her? Or can she safely let herself blame him for the end of her freedom? She would rather be at the bottom of the ocean than to live without being near its depths. Still, now that her choice has gone and passed her by, she would rather live long enough to escape to her idea of a safe haven.
She will do whatever he wants her to do if that means she will get to return safely to her beloved siblings. So she stares at their entwined hands and tries to gather up enough courage to do what needs to be done here – only she cannot do it.
Her breaths start to come faster and faster, and when he steps in closer to her she jumps back quickly, pulling his arm along with her. That leaves his hand closer to her chest than she ever wants it to be, so she thrusts out her right hand to keep him away from her as much as she can with their hands tied together.
There is no way to get untied unless she gives him her body, and she could never give herself to anyone she cannot trust – she knows that she will never be able to trust a man of the Order who has tricked her into this Bond and has taken away her previous life. It is just too much for her, hands starting to tremble with the effort of keeping a straight face when it seems like everything is falling apart.
"Please, stop," she pleads, her voice cracking on those two small words.
Still he moves closer, and there is no way for her to move except to flatten herself even more against the wall. She holds her breath to try and keep their bodies from touching, and still he reaches for their entwined hands with his free one. It is tradition, after all.
"Enjolras," his name escapes in a breathy whisper.
He is too close; much too close for her to be comfortable with, and now both his hands are entwined with her right one. If this is his way to prepare her for the inevitable, she would rather he just make haste so that it will be over sooner. She will not be able to stomach this for very much longer.
Her eyes are fixed on his large hands holding her callused palm, and that is when she sees that his quick fingers are trying to manipulate the crooked knot that binds them together. He makes short work of the complicated knot and the ribbon falls to the floor, where it hits the light with a soft shimmer of blue.
It is coming now, and she had best prepare herself for the worst.
His face is moving ever closer to her, and when their faces are so close she can barely focus on it anymore, she ducks underneath his arm. She cannot think anymore. He was everywhere around her and she just could not breathe any longer.
"No, Éponine," he holds out his hands in what is meant to be a comforting gesture. "I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you. I promised that you would not owe me anything inside these walls and I will keep that promise. I promise to never take advantage of you and never to force you to do anything. I will tell the Masters you gave yourself to me willingly and they will believe me. We can pretend."
This entire speech is said while he tries to make himself seem as non-threatening as he can possibly be. He is no longer crowding her, almost pressing himself against the wall in the very same position she was in only moments before.
"If you can pretend we made love," he starts again, "I am sure that we will be able to convince them of this. I promise that I will protect you from harm. And since it was my fault you cannot be with your siblings at this time, I will make sure that they are taken care of as well. They will get everything they need. This I promise."
With that last solemn vow, he steps into the bedroom, leaving the door open so that she can still see the large bed that still scares her. The red sheets look too much like blood, and her mind cannot seem to move away from these morbid thoughts.
When her Bonded reenters the room, he is carrying a pillow and several blankets in different shades of blue and green. She feels her face contort into a frown as she watches him turn into the direction of the sitting area, where he gently places his pile on the sofa before turning to her with a gentle smile on his face.
"I would not dream to force you to share my bed," he explains.
So he would banish her to the sofa, a kind of embarrassment that is usually used for a Bonded in blue who was less than obedient. She straightens her back, ready to bear her shame in silence, as a woman in blue is supposed to do when her Bonded chides her.
"You may have my bed," Enjolras continues.
She stops in her tracks, hiding her stumbling towards the sitting area with a closer look at the blankets he has just selected for himself. They are some of her favorite shades of the ocean, and she thinks about the reds covering the big bed and she shivers.
"I was only trying to kiss your cheek before," he adds, bemused. "It was meant as a show of good faith. Seeing as you are not amenable to that, I suppose a hand will do."
And before she could stop him, Enjolras slips his hand in hers, much more gently than when they were tied together, and brushes the rough skin with soft lips. Her breath escapes in a soft exhale and then he lets go of her. It all happens so quickly.
"May you have a peaceful rest," he steps away and sits on the sofa.
"You as well," she manages to stammer the standard response.
As she sits down on the large bed, she wonders what kind of man would wear the red but love the ocean.
AN: Part 2 to come… No idea what the bleep is going on? Good! Let me know what you think…