ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo- BUT ONLY A LITTLE FALL OF RAIN WAS IN CONTEXT.
TheIbis2010- Surprisingly, on the site where I found the names, an audio was provided and they are strangely easy to pronounce. It's just that the spelling is… *curse you Irish people*
Punchy- THANK YOU FOR THE LONG REVIEW. It made me squeal :) It's strange; I saw Zephan on a list of Irish names….. Worst case scenario, I'll use the defense that it was a starting trend around that time period (everywhere, I believe) for children to be named with exotic names. Take Marius! That's like… Latin or something of the sort (Thinking of Gaius Marius). And the black-green definition will be relevant, as will Aoibheann's. That's so cool that it's your middle name! I saw the definition and when I said it aloud, it was just so beautiful :)
Kansas- I hope this chapter satisfies you, at least a little bit. More of Éponine and Gav to come, I promise! This chapter won't be the end of their interactions. Although, I am trying to remain true to canon for the Brick, so Gav's interaction will be a touch less than Éponine's.
Stagepageandscreen- I will go read that one-shot. And, don't cry, here you go :)
THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT! You all are absolutely amazing. Enjoy this… Interesting installment. More medium is to come, I promise. :)
On the opposite page, there were two cartoon-style pictures labeled as if a pair, with the simple title of Ceara's boy troubles, November 30, 1831.
In the first installment, the girl was leaning over Enjolras' work, her long hair hanging like a curtain around the two of them. It was drawn almost crudely, as if Grantaire was desperate to capture the moment before it slipped into oblivion. Her hands were once gain extraordinarily detailed as a few of her fingers appeared to be slightly hooked into Enjolras' pockets, with his much larger hand capturing her wrist as if to shove her away. He looked slightly annoyed, but overall less tense than Henri was used to seeing his late cousin.
In the second, two column-like doodles inched down the paper as if emerging from the previous drawing although they were really the beginning of a new sketch. The columns were quite strange, for instead of being uniformly cut, they were sagging and plump with what appeared to be rolls of fat. As Henri's eyes traveled down, he saw the enormous feet that grounded the structures (or, rather, structure) and he vaguely recognized it as the Elephant monument in Place de la Bastille.
Following the rest of the image, he saw two contrasting figures standing as if about to fight. At first, he thought maybe that they were two ghosts, but it was not so. Upon closer inspection, the sketch depicted two young women at odds. One of them, with long, curly hair and the relatively modest dress, was clearly Ceara although her back was to Grantaire. The other woman was taller and, if possible, more emaciated. Her hair was straighter and each strand appeared to be a stick that stuck out of her skull. Her face was folded into a gaunt scowl that was altogether quite unattractive (especially in comparison with the smaller girl). The unfamiliar girl had on clothes that barely sufficed as rags; an old chemise that hung off one shoulder and a skirt that fell in tattered shreds around her ankles.
Above them, two thin legs appeared in between the elephant's, suggesting that someone was somehow in the belly of the best, watching the two. Henri frowned at this peculiar drawing; he couldn't understand it, and the title made no sense. Also, his brain was slightly muddled from seeing his cousin let any woman so close to him.
Ceara waltzed into the back room on a relatively warm winter day. It couldn't be said that she entered doing anything other than dancing, for her graceful little steps hinted at little else. She had a pleased little smile on her face, and her hair was slightly mussed. Grantaire, with his excellent observational skills, had noticed her habit of running her fingers through her hair constantly (this was probably the only reason that her wild curls hadn't succumbed to the street's dirt and grime).
She walked right up to Enjolras, the only Ami she hadn't directly bonded with. However, he tolerated her presence (which was much to her credit being as the only other woman on that list would be his mother). It came of much of a shock when she placed her hand on top of Enjolras' meticulous notes to get his attention. He looked up, the ink smudged on his cheek and his disheveled curls making him appear younger than usual.
"Yes?" He asked, expectantly. His fingers, stained black from the ink, drummed on the table as he waited for the question.
"I need money." She said, shortly. Her posture, with her stiff shoulders and her firmly planted feet, allowed little room for a decline.
The demand came as even more of a surprise. Ceara, despite her odd habits of dancing half the time and nervously being jovial the rest, had never gone so far as to do this. Of course, Les Amis would willingly give any of their members money upon request (except maybe Bossuet or Grantaire, the former for his notorious lack of luck and the latter, well…).
"May I ask why?" He asked, uninterestedly turning his attention back to his work, barely noticing her creeping fingers as they went to his pocket. However, she wasn't quite as sneaky as she thought she was, and Enjolras firmly took a hold of her wrist. She kept the tops of her fingers buried in the fabric, as if to tell him that she could, but she wouldn't. She leaned forwards so that Enjolras was forced to look her in the eye, her hair pouring around their heads like a barrier. The bottoms of her curls danced across the paper, successfully distracting Enjolras.
(If you asked him, he would deny that she smelt pleasantly like champagne and earth, the most Parisian smell that exists)
"Please." She added a pout for good measure. Enjolras wrenched her fingers out of his pocket, trying to ignore the strange coldness of his palm without her wrist in it. He reached for his change purse, pulling out a five franc piece. Enjolras placed it almost roughly in her palm, pressing the coin hard enough to cause the slightest of pink indentations on her calloused hand.
"May I at least know why you need my money?" Enjolras asked, as she was about to leave. She sent a flirty wink his way, swaying her slender hips for good measure.
"There's a boy." She stage-whispered, allowing the others to hear her loud and clear. This quite quickly ceased most conversations in the room but for Joly's incessant rambling about a strange series of bumps on his tongue. Bossuet promptly hit him over the head, which left Joly reeling about the possible side effects from cranial damage.
With that, she skipped out of the room, leaving nothing in her wake but a confused Enjolras and a group of silent friends.
"Grantaire, Bahorel, follow her." Enjolras ordered, roughly. It was almost as if he were trying to learn how to speak again.
(If anyone were to point out the beads of sweat on the nape of his neck, he would wipe it away with a shrug. If anyone further tried to imply that it was caused by Ceara's prior close encounter, he would deny it vehemently)
"Sure." Said Bahorel immediately. "A young grisette alone with money at this time of the night… And who knows what this 'boy' has in store…" He smirked, the idler always ready for a fight.
Grantaire snorted at his friends' inability to tell that Ceara was an urchin who was more than capable of taking care of herself. Unfortunately, this little noise brought the attention of the marble statue to the drunk. He indicated Grantaire with the slightest flick of his glorious golden-curled head. "Bring Grantaire, Bahorel. He may not be useful in any way, but extra manpower couldn't hurt. The wine cask needs to go home anyway…"
"My dear statue," Grantaire ignored Enjolras' scowl at the nickname, "I do believe that you will miss me more than you expect."
"I doubt it. Now I suggest the two of you go before there is a new body in an alley."
A few of the men flinched at Enjolras' bluntness, and Bahorel left, dragging Grantaire (and his doodled-in textbook) out the café Musain's back room and into the darkness that awaited them outside.
The two men followed the flittering form of Ceara as she hurried through the streets. The November chill started to gain a hint of December's, thoroughly freezing Grantaire through his thin waistcoat and shirt. He clutched his worn book closer to his body and kept his bleary eyes peeled for the ghostly girl. Based on the balmy weather earlier in the day, he presumed that the mildness would carry on through the night. Of course, this is Grantaire, who would rather not admit that he's wrong.
She came to a stop in the most peculiar place. It appeared almost as if she was sight-seeing, for her casual demeanor and her light steps would make it seem as if she had nowhere to go. She tossed the coin into the air and caught it again, dancing sweetly around the legs of the Elephant. Finally, she got down to business and rapped her fist on one of the legs. There was a strange sound when she did so, suggesting that the monument was hollow. A high pitched shout came from… Inside the statue?
Two small legs stuck out from the belly, and Bahorel was sure that, if he was to go closer, he would see a hole in the monstrosity's stomach. Ceara's face was angled up at the owner of the legs, a smile on her face.
Suddenly a demon emerged from the shadows of the opposite legs, causing the closely-watching Bahorel to curse in surprise and Ceara to jump in shock. She braced herself against one of the other legs, clearly struggling to slow her breathing.
"Damn it, I can't hear anything. R, I'm moving closer. R?"
But Grantaire was already sketching the odd scene before he could forget it. His textbook was oddly balanced on his knee, which he attempted to keep aloft by propping his foot against the brick of the building behind him.
Bahorel shook his head at the drunk's odd antics and crept closer, keeping as close to the shadows as he could. Eventually he managed to clearly hear part of the conversation, and the new figure- another girl, apparently- was talking in criminal's argot to a confused Ceara.
"What do ya want from him? I've his company tonight." She was saying, and Bahorel nearly snickered at the absolute confusion on the smaller girl's face. The two were about the same age- older than fourteen and yet younger than seventeen, their age hard to tell from the hard times that they endured. In Ceara's credit, she managed to keep alive her subtle beauty more than the other, whose face was a gnarled, thin mask that was both fearsome and sad to behold. "Little scamp promised me tickets to the opera."
"Oi! 'Ponine! Be nice," The pair of legs spoke, and then a small, fair-haired boy jumped down between the two gamines. "How can I help you, stranger?" The boy asked in the children's unique brand of argot, which Ceara was considerably closer to being able to understand.
"I… Uh… I saw you give that little boy your shoes." She seemed suddenly uncomfortable with her fellow urchins' eyes upon her. "And I wanted to give you this." She handed him the coin. He observed it with a careful eye, aiming it this way and that to capture the city lights. He then placed it between his teeth and bit down, hard. He made a grunt in approval and he stuck the coin in his pocket. "Thought that you may be able to buy another pair."
"You gave away your shoes?" The other girl, Éponine, said with a hint of anger in her proud voice. "I bought those for you, you silly child!" She added the last bit as a term of endearment for the younger boy. To an outsider, it was unclear what the two's relationship was. Perhaps they were just friends, allies, accomplices. Perhaps, (and this was the truth) they were siblings who actually bothered to care for each other in their rough lives.
It ought to be noted that, in realizing that Ceara was unable to understand the rough language of the streets, Éponine easily transitioned into proper (and quite eloquent) French.
"They didn't fit right! Theyd've caused me more damage wearing them than not!" He said, defensively. The girl threw up her hands fondly.
"All the same, Gavroche! It's nearly winter, you stupid boy!" She scolded. He shrugged, taking a hold of his sister's elbow as if she was a fine lady, and sent Ceara a 'thanks' before dragging the girl away into the Parisian night. Ceara watched for a moment before turning and walking back through the dingy streets.
Bahorel and Grantaire, still under orders to follow her until she got to a safe place, casually trailed her until they came to a particularly sleazy part of Paris' underbelly. The two men exchanged looks, and Bahorel eagerly cracked his knuckles and Grantaire tucked away his book. Both of them were boxers, after all. It was then that she suddenly ducked into a nearby alley as if pulled. They sped up, remembering Enjolras' haunting threat.
Then a scream pierced the air and they started running to where she disappeared. Upon entering the alley, however, they simply saw her by herself, bent over as if in terrible pain.
"Are you all right?" Asked Grantaire, sobering considerably in this moment of distress. Bahorel began looking around for the culprit. It was only when Grantaire got really close that he noticed something key to her behavior.
She was bent around her hands, which were clutching her stomach with a strange desperation. Tears ran down the corners of her eyes and her hair concealed the rest of her face. She shook with something that was assumed to be sobs.
Unsure of what to do with a crying woman, Grantaire eased himself close and reached out a shaking hand to pat her back or something of the sort (isn't that what one is to do in this situation?). As if sensing his approaching hand, Ceara stood up straight with severe difficulty. Bahorel, who was still watching from a safe distance, evaluating the scene and which direction a potential criminal could have run, was the one who stated what neither of them bothered to consider.
"Are you…. Are you laughing?"
She nodded, the tears still streaming down her eyes. She was alight with the ruddy glow of someone who hadn't laughed in a long time. She took gulps of air and managed to calm down, although a smile still twitched at the corners of her mouth and her eyes were bright in the dark alleyway.
"Tell Enjolras not to have anyone follow me again. I am a big girl, Messieurs. I can watch out for myself."
With that, she eased away. Enjolras wouldn't be happy, but what could they do to stop her?
We meet the Thernardiers! I'm sorry for describing Éponine like that, but she will make that transition where she becomes beautiful. I promise. And then she and Courfy will become close.. and… yeah.
I know where this story is heading, and I have a vague idea for other drawings, but if any of you have requests, just send them in through a review! Je vous adore :)