Chapter Twelve
...But if You Don't, Let Me Be Your Eyes. A Hand to Your Darkness
A/N: This chapter title and the last one are lyrics from "I'll Be Your Mirror" by The Velvet Underground.
Also content warning for Éponine talking about her childhood and stuff she's gone through. She doesn't get very specific, but just in case.
Erik scrambled out of his chair and backed away from her. "No. It is every bit 'as bad as all that.' If I showed you, you would run away from me in horror. You wouldn't stay here another minute."
"I'm not scared."
"You should be. And the fact that you aren't afraid proves that you are not ready to behold this horror. I am a monster, Éponine."
Éponine raised her chin defiantly, and her eyes crackled with a dangerous light. "Me? Not ready? Well, maybe not. But that hasn't stopped anyone before."
She saw Erik's look become one of questioning behind his mask.
"I wasn't ready for almost anything that has happened in my life, and I am only 17 years old." She gave a humourless laugh. She was filled from head to toe with a rage that made her shake. And it wasn't really about the mask at all. "Do you think I was ready, as a tiny girl, to be in a place full of rowdy, drunken men? My parent's inn. I was there for my earliest memories. How old was I when Maman taught me to pick the pockets of those men? Barely old enough to walk. Do you know what it was like for a little girl, growing up in a place like that, Erik? Still, it was the only home I knew. So, do you think I was ready, one night, to have to leave it all behind and flee like criminals because Papa got mixed up in something bad, and suddenly, just like that, we were criminals? Proper criminals, on-the-run criminals, not just dishonest innkeepers who picked a few pockets here and there? But no—no one asked if I was ready. It was just sleeping in a warm bed one night, and bam! Huddling together for warmth in ditches and under the arches of bridges the next. Like it or drop dead, dogs!"
Erik had taken a step closer to her, and he looked like there was something he wanted to say or do. But whatever it was, he just stood there, looking at her sadly and helplessly.
She couldn't stop. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was just that she had never, never voiced these things before. "'Are you ready for this, Éponine? Is this too horrible for you?' No, no—Papa never asked me that. He just told me what had to be done, and if I didn't do it, I could take my bruises and consider myself lucky. Maman never said a word. She just sat there like none of it was happening. And thanks to him, we all got thrown in the clink—Maman, Azelma, and me. That's right Monsieur, you have a proper jailbird here in your house." She tried for another laugh, but instead choked on a sob that was threatening to claw its way out. She swallowed hard. "Speaking of Maman, she sold my two baby brothers. Sold them! Don't know if they were ready for that, but I know I wasn't. My other brother, Gavroche? Found the streets much warmer than our home. Stopped living with us. I worried about him all the time. Sometimes I wouldn't be able to find him for a few days and I would almost go crazy, I was so worried. He was at the barricade too, you know. He always looked after himself, so I hope he made it out all right. But I don't know. And I'm not ready for that."
She was crying now, and she hated herself for it. But now that the flood gates were opened, she just couldn't stop. "There's so much more. Things too horrible to talk about—I'm not ready to talk about. I wasn't ready for any of it. But no one ever cared. That never stopped anyone. There's a reason I'm not scared of anything—I have nothing left to be scared of. You tell me not to talk to you of ugliness? Well, don't you dare talk to me of monsters. I know monsters. And you really have no idea."
Exhausted, she drew in a shaky breath and turned to leave the room, tripping over that ridiculous dress. Erik caught her by the waist, barely stopping her from falling on her face.
"Let GO of me!" She tried to twist herself away from him, but he was holding her tightly. He had his arms wrapped securely around her now, and she struggled to get away but to no avail. She was so exhausted that she quickly went limp and just melted into him. He held her while she dissolved into a blubbering mess of sobs. It was not exactly a tender embrace—just a calm, emotionless restraint. But there was still something so comforting in it for Éponine, and she wouldn't have tried to fight him anymore even if she'd had strength left.
He finally released her. She stood there, still crying. She hated for him to see her cry. He must think she was so weak and childish. But she couldn't tell what he thought, because he just stared into the fire, not looking at her. The silence was driving her mad, but she also dreaded finding out what he would say if he finally did speak.
Finally, he resumed his seat and gestured for her to do the same. She ignored it and stood there. Standing was exhausting, but it made her feel a little less vulnerable, which she needed after everything she had just spewed out.
At long last, Erik spoke. His voice was soft. "I have been wronged, as you have. But I cannot say that my own hands are as clean as yours."
Éponine swallowed. Clean? Her hands were far from clean.
"You are wrong about me. I have done things most would consider monstrous."
Éponine rubbed the back of her fist roughly across her eyes and under her nose. "I don't really care what you've done, because you've only been kind and gentle with me." Maybe that made her a little bit of a monster. Maybe she was supposed to care.
Erik responded only with a thoughtful hum. They were silent a moment. Then, he stood. In a chilling voice, he said, "You must never again ask to see what is behind Erik's mask. And if you ever try to find out for yourself, it would be a very bad lookout for you. I can't answer to what would happen." His eyes burned threateningly.
And with that, he stood and walked toward a door—a different one than that which led to Éponine's room. He opened it and went through, but as he was closing it behind him, he turned and poked his head back out. "By the way: you look lovely, Éponine, but we do need to get you some clothes that actually fit."
Éponine flushed and tugged the dress back into place from where it had fallen off at the shoulder.
Part of her wished he might have said something more, even though she wasn't sure what she would have him say. But to hardly say anything, and then return to the subject of the mask, coldly threatening her? She shouldn't have told him all of that—why had she told him all of that? Would he look at her differently, now?
Perhaps not. Because of what he had said. He felt she had been wronged. He saw her hands as clean. Did he really mean that? He wouldn't hold any of it against her, then? The thought made her heart swell up in her chest as though sodden with tears that wouldn't fall.
