A/N- Ah, who am I kidding? To be perfectly honest the only reason I'm even touching this thing again is because I've had writers block for the last six months and I'm trying to force myself to form sentences again. I realize many of you will conclude that this latest installment, and indeed the whole project, is fairly boring and unoriginal. So be it.
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The noon church service killed over an hour and her mortal soul was none the wiser for all the cleansing it had experienced. She'd spent the time huddled in the last pew ignoring the proceedings but enjoying the heat and the smell of incense. The priest eyed her warily when she came up for Communion, but the little wafer was more than she'd had in days and she'd gladly burn in hell for the confessions she never made. In fact, a roaring fire would be quite welcome indeed. She gulped as much wine as she could manage before the minister wrenched the glass away. Alas, it was neither enough for dulled senses nor continued warmth. It was enough to earn a dubious glare from the good clergyman, however.
After mass she fingered the envelope addressed to the white-haired man with a pretty daughter. She followed them for a few paces contemplating its delivery and listening to the girl express her gratitude for being blessed with a warm woolen cloak on this day of days.
"Oh papa, God is so generous to have given me such warmth when others are so cold," she said earnestly.
"That is why we must share our blessings with others, my child," the man gently reminded her.
"I'd bless you with the business end of a crowbar if I had to listen to your pontificating every day, you pious little ninny," Eponine grumbled.
She watched them climb into a carriage, the girl's dainty boots stepping ever so lightly until they disappeared; the man's heavy steps causing the carriage to dip a bit as he climbed in. They drove away. The letter was still in her hand. She didn't care. Opportunity lost; she shoved into the stack with the others. "Pity they didn't turn around and share some of those effing blessings. Isn't that the rich? Keeping their eyes forward and their heads high and wondering why everyone's on about those pesky poor people that they never even see." She was overcome by jealousy and anger. "Easy to be charitable when you keep avoiding the people who need charity!"
In fact, had they seen her the girl would have offered Eponine the very cloak off her back and the man surely would have arranged for a hot meal. But, unaccustomed to honesty, charity and empathy as she was, Eponine took their ignorance for indifference and glared after their carriage with intense hatred.
With the carriage out of sight she was left to mill about the churchyard and try to formulate a plan for the rest of the afternoon. She had never managed to resign herself to idleness. In the years after the inn shut down her father had slipped with ease into a life of idle unemployment. Never one to glory in hard work, his current like of sloth and crime was a merely the logical progression of laziness and skillessness. But, she could still vaguely recall the hustle and bustle of another life. Warm memories seen through a golden haze as if recollection itself could yellow with age. The constant anticipation of company, as if every night were to be a grand party. She and her sister dressed in their best, travelers pinching their cheeks and slipping Napoleons to them in fits of drunken generosity. Kettles over leaping flames, bread so fresh it still melted butter, people coming and going, hours occupied with games and toys and, later, chores.
Eponine had taken to the chores better than Azelma. Perhaps it was because Eponine was older, could see their parents sinking. Tried to keep them afloat in her small way, by sweeping the steps. Perhaps it was simply because she was bigger and could finish most chores with speed and ease. Whatever the reason, her aptitude for busywork had lead to this- a lifetime of being someone's errand girl. Still, an errand girl has her uses and a living can be made. Meanwhile, Azelma had found her niche in a lifetime of being a prone mute. Her inability to grow and work like a proper person infuriated Eponine and left her torn between wanting to protect her and wanting to throttle her. She often thought the girl would be better off if her throat was slit in some back alley. She was just too weak and Eponine felt the risk of protecting her offered no real gain.
It may inconceivable to contemplate a sister that way, but poverty is such that all of life becomes a careful scale the weighs risk against reward. It is a level so low it is unimaginable to most, but like wild animals the poor may find more reward in eating their young than nurturing them.
Having thought of no plan, indeed having thought of nothing but her past, Eponine drifted from the churchyard to the shops some blocks away. She tried to arrange her tatters provocatively in hopes that some man would be in a spending mood.