She is still having troubling thoughts.
Not that they are altogether unpleasant, really, but they are distracting, and they are so very close to catching the Diadem. Slipping up there could be fatal.
Avoiding or ignoring is not an option, and not only because it seems an unsavory prospect. She would have nothing to stem the thoughts with.
And the trouble with Marius endured because she allowed it. Harmless at first, and even helpful as a source of hope, she let her wishes buoy her until she was too far gone for the fall not to break her.
She hadn't let herself be fooled with Montparnasse – he didn't love her and he never would, even if he could be kind sometimes – and, being neither cynical nor optimistic about it… she was fine in the end.
She might have been fine sooner if she'd come down from the clouds long enough to do the same with Marius.
(Éponine thinks she feels almost the same as ever about him. He is no less kind, no less of any of what he was, and she would be happy to receive his attention, the same as before – but she has now been happier still. That feeling would perhaps fade in comparison. Recognizing this makes her feel weary, and worn, and somehow also lightened.)
It's a dream that gives her the final push.
It is similar to ones she's had before, but her imagined inamorato has not a sprinkling of freckles but golden curls, and leaves her to wake flushed not by being something unrepeatable, but from how – unfamiliarly tender it had been
So the next time those thoughts strike her – she takes it. Looks it over. Turns upside down and shakes it, pulls it inside out and puts it back together.
There is admiration there, naturally, mixed in with exasperation that may be a touch fond now, and there is a certain fascination, curiosity arising and dredging up questions (how did the marble man change flesh to solid stone, become resolute in these shining ideals, and is there still flesh beneath?) even as there are some she hopes she never sees the answer to (how much weight can Atlas bear before he buckles?).
Simple – and somehow this combination of commonplace emotions (Éponine has held respect for few individuals through a short life stretched too long, but not so few that the feeling is new, or able to be mistaken for another) mixes to form something that is so utterly else that she doesn't know what to do with it now it's there.
Even going by the symptoms, she cannot put a name to it and be assured that she is right, because it is – it must be – too slow, too gradual to fit against what she has always imagined. And she's afraid that naming it will assuredly make history repeat.
It's nothing right now – a seed, an inkling of an idea, kindling to a fire that could be, but she is finally, finally happy, and she will not jeopardize that. She won't.
So Éponine settles on the solution of pushing aside the thoughts and redoubling her efforts to prepare.
She is certainly able to stand his presence, able to interact and even be close to without anything that is too out of the ordinary happening. (It is possible she is a little more aggressive with proving this to herself than is necessary, but she thinks he doesn't notice.)
If she recognizes that what she felt with Marius was built on false hopes and lovely, empty misconceptions, she will not fall to the same mistakes again.
And she is… fine.
As fine as she can be on this matter, at least.
Without a connection to shore, they have no way of knowing whether the Sentinel remains a distant threat or whether she looms ever nearer.
With this, and with the worries of all that can go wrong, she walks on feet that feel as though the ship beneath is trembling. So she occupies herself, and the others do the same.
Feuilly paints a swathe of colors in curls and spirals; dark ink is given meaning and weight through his brush.
Courfeyrac eases worries; try as she might, she cannot see that he is affected by fears of what is ahead, and in his presence she is even inclined to forget some of her own. For this, she is grateful.
Grantaire takes to drinking more, and she knows that he at least is troubled. She draws him out as best she can with jibes, and he seems to fare better when he is going through steps with her and clashing swords than not.
She sees them prepare, too.
Bahorel is a whirlwind, favoring force over finesse, and a single blow looks enough to do significant damage.
Jehan, on the other hand, practically exudes grace. Each of his hits mean something, tailored to force his opponent to react a certain way.
She does not see Joly in action, but he gives her advice on how to step and where to strike, medical knowledge gaining a use she hadn't thought of before.
Poor Bossuet simply favors a defensive stance, but at least it seems to work for him – and his luck, as it turns out, brings injury to him as well as to an opponent. She only practices once with him, but a strike on her part that brought him off balance managed to send her stumbling back, and she ends up with bruises on her elbows.
Combeferre can wield dual pistols just as easily as one – she learns this from watching him clean them and bringing her curiosity to the others. He declines a demonstration on the grounds that they need all the ammunition they can get, and she sobers at the reminder.
And she gets a chance to see Enjolras in action.
When he has written and planned to the point it seems there is nothing left to write, even he must find some outlet to his worries. Sword fighting does not seem to be the usual activity of choice, but he does acquiesce.
She has never seen her in battle and does not know how to react, and he disarms her easily in the end, but she holds out for a fair bit of time, and she is pleased when he tells her so. She concedes easily, glad of the chance to observe.
They – all of them – balance each other, and they are – something to marvel at, something solid, something that must surely remain when all the rest fades to dust and history books. Maybe, with them, she is, too. She must only keep them safe throughout this adventure – for she feels that she must, in a way, be a protectorate against the world she once belonged to – and she will find out.
And she will find out soon.
A/N: I felt really, really guilty about not updating yesterday. Bleh. On the bright side, it's better than what it would have been had I tried to write it in an hour. Much more so, if it hasn't come out all jumbled.
An introspective chapter is necessary – well, to show changes, naturally, but also because I'm not sure we'll have time for another soon.
I guess this might change to T at some point, too, from a conflicting combination of romance and fighting. (War, man. Battles.)
[Also, I just came home to find that my Enjonine shirt arrived, and it is awesome. =w=]