part ii
She sets out with a guard, two handmaidens, Cosette and Musichetta, and several priestesses a week before the summer solstice.
She speaks very little, even to the girls. She has resolved to suffer in silence, as her final dissent against the priestesses, to whom she will not speak at all.
They arrive at midday on the solstice, and as they approach his city – a great, rocky monstrosity built on a cliff with a dangerous drop into the sea (though she is relieved that there is a forest less than a league away) – she feels her stomach churning, and is certain her insides are turning to ash even as they emerge from the woods.
A mounted party is waiting for them; eight young men, only a few years her senior. None of them are fat and balding. She wonders which is her prince.
They bow to her from their saddles as her party approaches, and inform her that they are to accompany her to the temple, where she will wash and prepare to meet her betrothed. She can't decide whether she's relieved or disappointed that he isn't counted among her welcoming committee, and wonders if he couldn't be bothered.
She rides at the head of the formation, with a kind-faced, curly-haired boy named Courfeyrac on her left, and a mild-expressioned, sandy-haired boy named Combeferre on her right. Both try several times to engage her in conversation, but she takes her vow of silence seriously, and ignores them, doing her best to seem imperious, but certain she just seems tiny and afraid.
Still, they all tell her stories about her betrothed: how kind he is, how intelligent, how passionate about everything he does. She knows they are trying to comfort her, but their words only make her more anxious.
The city is big and stone and all the buildings are close together in narrow streets. It's so different from her home, with its spacious streets and cozy, wooden homes. She hates it here.
Even the temple is different, she finds, as she is delivered to the priestesses there, who instantly take her and her handmaidens to wash.
She soaks in her misery, unable to enjoy even the feel of the hot water as it coaxes the mud from her pores.
She imagines that, somewhere across the city, the prince's troupe is regaling him with stories of her. She can practically hear them describing her skinny frame, her long hair, her pale skin. She wonders if they noticed the rough skin on her hands (from climbing too many trees as a child).
She decides they're probably telling him how haughty she is, and wonders if any realized that it was an act to keep from seeming scared. She wonders if they're talking about her as though she's a child, even though it's his eighteenth solstice and he's only a year and a half older than her.
The priestesses dress her in a fancy gown that is so different from the simple, comfortable fashions that she is used to; her shoulders and arms are bare, and silver beading gathers the fabricate at the shoulders into thick straps, from which a train spills. It's pale purple, almost gray, and more delicate than anything she's ever felt. It will make running away hard, and she wishes she were dead.
They set out as the sun begins its descent against a purple and orange sky. Cosette and Musichetta are dressed in identical gowns that match the deep blue of the early night sky; Musichetta looks beautiful in the shade of blue, all dark skin and hair and eyes, while Cosette glows like the stars beneath the dress, all silver hair and skin. They flank her as she rides sidesaddle on a horse as white as snow, which Cosette's father, Jean Valjean, leads.
They reach the celebration, and she is certain she will be sick, or will simply melt into the ground. Suddenly, the cliff and its far – surely deadly – drop into the sea don't seem so unwelcome.
Her heart is pounding and she is shaking as she is gently lifted down from the horse. The handmaids quickly right her hair and fix her gown (which she feels all too naked in), and then she's met, her hand is kissed, and she's being led round the corner by the king's herald, and under a flowered arbor that opens to the festivities.
The first thing she notices is that the festival is on the cliff, and she can see to the edge of the earth, where the dark water meets the brilliant sky.
The second thing she notices is the king, standing from his place and looking triumphant as she enters.
All sound and motion cease as the entire city turns to look at her. She looks stonily ahead, forcing her face to remain devoid of fear or apprehension.
The king approaches her, arms outstretched, and his welcoming words resound around the cliff. The people break into whispers. She hears none of it. The king kisses her hand, then leads her away from her small party, from the last little bit of home she has left, loudly commenting on what he is certain was a safe, pleasant and relatively stress-free trip (as her senses slowly begin to work again, she has to force herself not to make a rude comment about how a week spent on horseback is rarely pleasant).
As he leads her away, towards a long table set with lavish, gold plates and goblets facing the glorious, endless sea, she glances back. Musichetta, Cosette, Valjean, and the others in her party remain stationary. Both of the girls have encouraging smiles plastered to their faces, nodding slightly even as the distance between them grows, but in reality they look just as small and lost as she feels.
As they approach a long table that faces the sea, she spots the faces of some of the knights that met her earlier in the day. Her heart is pounding as they reach the dais, and the king looks around hopelessly, finally sighing exasperatedly and shouting for his son.
After a moment – a moment that is suffocating and seems eternal – there is movement to the left of her vision, and a figure steps forward. Her breath catches in her throat as her heart threatens to burst from anxiety.
There, silhouetted against the sea and the brilliant orange sun, is the man she can only assume is her betrothed. He is tall; that's the first thing she notices, with a shock of hair as golden as the sun. And he's handsome, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones; it's the chiseled face of a marble statue. He's wearing a red coat that suits him brilliantly, and the shirt underneath is open just enough to reveal a lean collarbone.
Definitely not a fat, balding, old man, then.
He's surveying her critically, and she's sure that this useless dress is sheer, that she's naked and he can see everything about her, both inside and out. He strolls forward then, his posture tense and his affectation chilly and his jaw clenched tight, and takes her hand without waiting for her to offer it, brushing lips that don't even purse against her knuckles. He won't meet her eyes, and her heart is pounding in her ears as her trembling hand falls back to her side unceremoniously.
"It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Eponine. I am Enjolras. Welcome to my home," his voice is tight, and his words sound rehearsed. He even sounds a little angry.
"I am delighted, Monsieur, thank you," Eponine responds politely, wondering if she sounds as miserable as she feels. Her voice is hoarse from her self-imposed silence, and suddenly she's worried about what he must think of her. She feels like a child again, in trouble at the temple, with all the priestesses staring at her as they decide on her punishment.
She wishes her sister were there.
They feast in her honor, and in honor of the prince's eighteenth solstice, and in honor of the gods. She sits just to his right, and forces herself to eat a bit – she's trained enough to know not to be rude, even if the food tastes like ash in her mouth and her stomach wants nothing more than to reject it. The king talks to her, but mostly to the High Priestess who accompanied her and who came to oversee the marriage, leaving Eponine and her betrothed in a tense, awkward silence.
The dinner drags on, and she picks at the food, and stares at the entertainment without seeing. As the moon rises, she feels slightly more at ease, confident that the shadows will help hide her face.
When it's over, Enjolras unenthusiastically invites her and her people on a tour of the city the following morning with his friends; she mechanically responds yes. It seems he is as excited about the prospect as she is, and she is relieved when she is taken to a room in the castle and reunited with Cosette and Musichetta.
They chatter at her as they prepare for bed, trying to be positive and remind her that he's handsome and young and it could be much, much worse, but Eponine snaps at them to stop speaking, and they have the decency to ignore – save for a few comforting squeezes on her shoulders and arms and hands – the few tears that drip from her eyes.
She goes to sleep utterly miserable.