ix
He places no blame on her—none whatsoever. It's all his fault. He is the one who's broken his vow of chastity. He is the one who fell in love and followed it through. He is the one who doesn't have the heart to lose his precious Maltese princess.
He calls her this sometimes. It starts off as a tease, but soon grows genuine. The two of them lay lazily in the sand. His fingers trace circles on her warm skin. One of her hands is tangled in his curls. His lips are flushed and parted. Her eyes are half-closed.
"Princess of Malta," he murmurs. His voice is gravelly, and nearly lost, nearly drowned in the sound of the waves lapping the shore. She hears him though, and her dark eyes fly open. She's set on fire, the red in her hair glowing and her eyes shining.
She can't seem to say anything, but there are tears in her eyes. He manages a smile, but she knows that he's not kidding. To him, she is the ruler of this island. She is all that matters on this barren rock. He feels bad for putting such weight on her shoulders, but it is his cross to bear as well. Should he be discovered… he shudders to think of what might become of him. What might become of her.
"My princess," he repeats. She smiles this time, curling closer to him. Her nipple presses against the smooth expanse of his chest. He presses his chin against her hair, inhaling the smell of the sea. He understands, to a certain extent, that it must be jarring to her. She has been a peasant all her life, and now she is the highest of the high in someone's eyes.
He hopes she understands how much she means to him.
x
Courfeyrac and Combeferre find out by accident. Or, not really an accident, per se, but a mistake on Enjolras's part. His carelessness leads his two best friends to become part of the delicate relationship that strings together him and the Princess of Malta.
And, even they find out through someone else—a local drunk who stumbles across Enjolras and Éponine kissing goodbye. Apparently she knows this mysterious man, for the moment he appears, her jaw relaxes and her lips turn down into a frown. Despite a dangerous matter on the verge of destroying them, all Enjolras can focus on is the plumpness of her lips—bruised and swollen from their most recent embrace.
"Grantaire, please—" she begins, but the man cuts her off.
He's much like the other peasants… he is a speck of dust on the Princess's island. This man, this… Grantaire hardly stands out to Enjolras. However, the delicacy of the situation works to help him put to mind the unattractive (… and slightly grotesque) face of Éponine's fellow peasant.
"I won't bother you, 'Ponine," the man assures. A flash of jealousy scorches Enjolras… however, it is thankfully soothed by Éponine's sisterly glance towards the man. "But you should be careful." Grantaire fixes Enjolras with a snarl. "Those knights of St. John are no good."
Enjolras knows it to be true, and sees this as a way out of this disaster with Éponine. However, when she kisses him sweetly the moment Grantaire is gone, her eyes flash like the darkest currents and it's just enough for Enjolras to know that he's far too selfish to let her go.
xi
There's a man.
It's a tad much to think of him as human after what he did.
Éponine saw it with her own eyes when she was very, very young. She was hardly older than Gavroche was when he was taken.
There was a pretty lady standing on the corner, but for whatever reason, Éponine's mother looked at the woman with a disgusted stare. Even young Éponine knew enough to know that this woman, for whatever reason, was below them. It felt strange to look at such a pretty lady, dressed in a tattered (and yet still lovely) red dress and a yellow armband, and know that dirty Éponine was better than her.
A man approached this woman and said something to her. The woman shook her head and turned away. The man wore a white tunic with a blood-red cross on it. The cross matched the color of the lady's dress.
The lady started shaking and backing away.
"Mama, maybe we should help—"
"No, Éponine. This scum is not worthy of our help or the Lord's."
This was even stranger. According to the priest, the Lord loved everyone. Surely he would love such a lovely woman as this.
The man made a sudden move, shoving pebbles down the front of the lady's dress. The lady screeched and scratched her nails along the mean man's face. Blood spurted like shooting stars across his cheek. He gasped.
Now Éponine knows names to those faces. The man was a knight named Bamatabois. He was French, like Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but he was a different type. He was cruel. He was one of the ones who laughed at Éponine when she went to the knights begging for a search party to be sent after Gavroche.
The woman was Cosette's mother, Fantine.
xii
"Have you seen Cosette?"
It's a rarity when one of the members of the cave society speak to another outside of their safe haven. It is because of this (and the dangerous tone in Jean Valjean's voice) that Éponine knows that something is terribly wrong. She shakes her head once, just long enough for him to see and short enough so that it doesn't seem that they're engaged in an improper conversation.
Éponine hurries immediately to the knight's barracks. Standing at the gates, much to Éponine's relief, is a familiar face.
"Courfeyrac!" she exclaims. He notices her and looks about to make sure that they're not being watched. He steps forwards quickly.
"What is it?" he sounds harsh, but she knows it's just because they have limited time.
"Is Marius around?" she asks.
"No.. he left a few days ago. He quit the order, he's back in Paris."
"Oh, no…" Éponine murmurs. She thinks of how this one was the one Cosette intended to keep. She worries that perhaps Cosette has done something drastic once faced with lost love.
"Here's the thing." Courfeyrac's voice is more humorous as he speaks again, "He took Cosette with him."
xiii
Before she leaves, Cosette sneaks into the infirmary with the help of Marius. She has a scarf wrapped around her copper hair and her pale skin is concealed by shadows. She creeps to the bed that contains the boy that's like a brother to her.
"Montparnasse," she whispers. "Are you awake?"
"Cosette?" he murmurs. "How are you here?"
"I've snuck in," she says. "Are you feeling well?"
"As well as I can knowing of my inevitable capture the moment I leave this sanctuary."
She chuckles. "Well, let's hope that you're slippery enough to escape."
Montparnasse forces himself to sit up. "What of Éponine?"
Cosette freezes, knowing of her friend's crush on her closest friend. "She's… well."
"…well?" he asks.
"She's… um…"
"Out with it, Cosette." He's as impatient as always. It almost pulls Cosette's sweet lips into a smile. Almost.
"She'sfoundherselfalover," Cosette forces out. Montparnasse blinks up at her for a moment. It's almost as if the words 'Éponine' and 'lover' never made a connection in his mind. However, his gaze (almost innocent) returns to the simmering, bored look it's taken on recently.
"As long as she's happy."
"I've come to say goodbye," Cosette says.
"Goodbye, then."
She nods and pulls the scarf tighter around her head.
And that's that.
ixv
Gavroche is the top. He is the best. And it's a great feeling.
When you're the best, you're given whatever you want by the sultan. So it is this man that Gavroche bows to. His blond hair brushes against the immaculate floor. The now familiar spices grace his nose and the lull of Arabic is familiar to his ears.
"Stand, boy. Allah be praised," the sultan says. His voice is firm with authority. Steel-edged like a sword.
"Allah be praised," Gavroche responds.
"I've heard that you are unhappy at being put in the cavalry," he begins. "I don't understand why. With your intelligence and physical ability, you would rise quickly to the top ran—"
"I wish to captain a fleet," Gavroche interrupts. Knowing his mistake, he fixes his gaze on the floor. He waits with a pounding heart for whatever punishment he will receive due to his rudeness. However, he hears a slightly raspy sound. Looking up, he's shocked to see the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire laughing.
"Of course, boy…" he says. "You may have a fleet of ships."
"Thank you," Gavroche says. He wonders where he will go first…
Malta. Where his sister and his parents are.
Where the bastard knights of St. John are. Those knights who Gavroche prayed for. Those knights who, just like Éponine, never came.
Even though his life is better for it (there is no way that a boy of Gavroche's social standing would get an education back on Malta), he is determined to get his revenge.
xv
Bamatabois isn't stupid. Perhaps he's not the smartest in the bunch, but he knows that one of the other French knights is acting peculiar. The boy who once was a top defender of the words "Gold, God, and Glory" (more familiar to the explorers than to the knights, but a phrase that is universal to all men of the time) now seems distracted. Distant. He's stopped caring about the gold, and it seems that God is a close second of his to be forgotten. Hopefully the glory won't go anywhere.
Now he darts around secretively, occasionally muttering about the "people" and the "state of the country". Bamatabois worries that this promising young knight may have fallen into the worst corruption of all: that of righteousness.
He doesn't know what's wrong with Enjolras (surely not the same as that Pontmercy fellow who eloped with a local whore), but he's sure to find out.
Next time that Enjolras leaves, Bamatabois throws on a cloak and follows him.
xvi
The week that Montparnasse is released from the infirmary is the same that Grantaire departs on a short trip to Sicily. Montparnasse, thankfully, manages to evade the police and make it to the safety of the cave. It is because of his safety that Éponine herself feels safe enough to accept an offer that Grantaire makes her.
She slips a note to Combeferre that simply has an address on it, as well as a time and a day. She darts away from the barracks feeling naughty and giddy all at once. The sun baked cobblestones burn her bare feet. The wind tears through her hair and her tattered skirt, threatening to send her entire being into the sea. She feels much like either an angel or some sort of terrifying witch.
It doesn't matter. Whatever entity she is, it is what Enjolras wants.
And, at three fifteen at Grantaire's hut, they meet.
For a short while, they have a safe haven.
xvii
"Enter, Luc Enjolras," the steely voice of La Valette calls him into the council. The moment he opens the door, he's seized. Shocked, he looks up, only to see a smirk facing him. That on the face of Bamatabois.
"For your behavior with the Thérnardier girl, we condemn you to an uncertain sentence in the dungeon."
Enjolras feels his life torn away as he's led out of the barracks. He passes his fellow knights on the way, eyes bearing into him. He forces himself to maintain composure. But it's hard, very, very hard.
He can't help himself from wondering…
What's happening to Éponine?
xviii
It's dark and cold. Enjolras knows that time is passing only because of the increasing scruffiness of his face. He shivers in the dirty dankness. It could still be the very moment he was thrown in here, the moment that seems so recent and yet so distant at the same time.
Up ahead (miles ahead), a trap door opens. A piece of (thankfully fresh) bread is thrown down along with a skin of water. Something else hits him, something papery and stiff. Before the light disappears, he unfolds the paper and reads the first few sentences, written in Combeferre's handwriting:
Dear Enjolras,
We are doing well up here, but we miss you.. especially Courfeyrac and I. The knights, especially those who hail from France, are lost without you. You were a leader to them, my friend.
However, I bring grave news as well. Unfortunately, I must tell you of Éponine Thérnardier—
Then the light is gone. Enjolras quite nearly howls with frustration.
Tell me of Éponine Thérnardier's… pregnancy? Imprisonment? Torture? Death?
Enjolras clutches the letter to his chest and waits for the trap door to open. In the midst of his worry, his skin and bread go untouched.
ixx
Éponine is fine. Well, not fine, but alive. She sits in a room that is dimly lit, listening to screams surrounding her. All desperate. All male. All of them, at the right time of night, turn into Enjolras.
She does all she can do.
She waits with tears streaming down her face and her hands clasped over her ears.
xx
They're both released from their small rooms of hell. One day, the trap door opens and remains so. A rope ladder is thrown down. Enjolras gingerly climbs, but it feels as though all the strength has left his bones. Filled with embarrassment, he calls up, "I can't… I can't climb."
The rope ladder is slowly pulled up. Inch by inch, the light grows stronger. The faces of Combeferre and Courfeyrac fade into focus. He falls into their arms, feeling like a bag of loose bones.
Éponine's is more difficult. She's questioned, first by the cruel but polite La Valette and then by the rude and crude Bamatabois. Only after it becomes clear that she has no intentions of being a spy is she released. However, it isn't until after Bamatabois attempts to use her body many, many times.
She comes into the sunlight and it feels like a second birth. She bumps into Combeferre immediately, and knows it is no accident. He bends down to whisper, "Enjolras is leaving… he's been put on the galleys."
And then he walks away. Éponine registers what he's told her and she rushes to the docks.
She gets to the cliff overlooking the ships just in time to see a ship depart with a familiar face aboard. He's still beautiful, even though he's been paled and thinned by time. His eyes are downcast, but it is through some stroke of luck that he looks up as the ship sails away. He meets her eyes and holds his handcuffed hand up in a short wave.
Éponine waves back. A pang in her heart reminds her of all that she's lost. Gavroche. Cosette. Enjolras.
She watches until the ship disappears into the turquoise Mediterranean.
-to be continued-
Reviews make me happy, especially since this hasn't gotten many notes on tumblr *insert broken heart gif here*.
There will be two or three more collections of drabbles, I think. Hope everyone keeps reading!
I do not own Les Mis or David Ball's Ironfire.