Purpose

Chapter 3 - An Offer Refused

For a moment Sims could only stare at the slight figure on the step, transfixed. A strong wind has risen, and her hair and rags blew wildly around her, giving her the appearance of girl prophet or oracle, rather than the impoverished scrap of a woman-child he remembered from the previous evening.

Then the wind subsided and she was just a girl again, dirty and shivering and looking at him with a heart-breaking mixture of fear and hope.

With a slight shudder, Sims shook off this uncharacteristic vapor and ushered the girl inside. "Come, child," he said, shutting the door firmly against the rising wind. "We have much to discuss."

Eponine, for her part, felt a relief so strong that she felt close to swooning. For a moment she had been certain that the old man remembered her not at all, that the whole state of affairs may have just been a fevered dream brought on my hunger and desperation, a dream so vivid that she had mistaken it for reality. It was only after he invited her inside that she came to realize how important this thing, this purpose, had become to her in just a short time. She stepped over the threshold, let out a breath she had not known she was holding, and followed Sims down the hall to the house's small sitting room.

As Sims went to put another log on the fire (the knife-edge of the wind had robbed the day of any marginal warmth it had first held), Eponine looked around the room with undisguised wonder. It was not the room's sparse furnishings and bachelor's décor that held her attention, but the weapons. They seemed to be everywhere -- hanging from hooks on the walls, cluttering the tables, poking out from under the sofa. And so many kinds! Some were recognizable (the gleaming double-headed axe, while unlike any she had ever seen, was at least identifiably an axe), but most bore no resemblance to anything in her experience. The sheer number of them frightened her a little; they were mute testimony to the fact that this was serious business, indeed.

Sims finished with the fire, and Eponine turned her awed gaze on him. "Monsieur, you are well-armed," she said. Her voice was not quite steady; her initial fright was starting to build towards something like panic. "In fact, it appears you could equip an army and still not want for protection."

"Indeed," he agreed. There were two worn wing-backed chairs drawn close to the fireplace. Sims sat in one and motioned for Eponine to sit in the other. She did as he bade, perching anxiously on the edge of the chair's ragged seat, facing him. "When one faces the forces of darkness, it is best to be prepared."

"But why do you need so many?"

"I don't," he replied, regarding her across the fire-lit expanse between them. "These belong to you."

"To me," she echoed dully. She twisted in her seat, again surveying the room's vast armory.

When she turned back to him, her face was carefully set, like that of a person about to commence with a task that is distasteful but cannot be avoided. When she spoke, her voice was measured and slow, the voice of someone who is forced to explain the obvious.

"Monsieur, I live in one small room with my parents and younger sister. When we are all in, there is barely room to pace for more than a few steps before we trip over one another. Even if there was room, I shouldn't like to put such things within reach of my sister, who is clumsy, and my father, who is dangerous. Where am I to keep them?"

He blinked, a look of mild surprise on his weathered face. "Why, here, of course. After all, you will train here and live here; why would you not keep your weapons here?"

At the words, "Live here," Eponine's brows shot up nearly to her hairline. For a moment she simply stared into the fire, slack-jawed and unmoving, trying to sort through the emotional avalanche his words had caused in her.

She knew she should feel glad at the prospect of leaving behind the detestable Gorbeau building, and part of her did, but another part of her -- a surprisingly strong part -- felt more than a little appalled at the idea. True, she despised her father and the men he associated with, and she lived in constant terror that violence could descend on her at any moment while she was at home, but she still cared for Azelma and (a very little bit) for her mother, and she was not certain that she could abandon them to that life, especially knowing that she now had some capacity to protect them.

Also, she didn't believe her father, who relied on her to carry his letters and inspire pity in their recipients with her pathetic countenance, would let her go so easily. While she felt reasonably certain that he could no longer posed a physical threat to her, there were other ways he could inflict pain. She knew it, and he knew it, too.

She looked across at Sims, at the naked expanse of his old man's throat and thought, Yes, he'll know the way to hurt me, or he'll learn. He'll wound me without ever laying a hand on me.

Out loud, she cleared her throat and simply said, "I thank you for the offer, Monsieur, but I can't accept."

He leaned across to her and took one of her hands, patting it soothingly. The gesture was comforting beyond measure, but still she wished he would stop. He wasn't making this any easier. His voice, so full of kindness and warmth, brought tears to her eyes, the first in years. "My dear, you have been given a great gift, and strength beyond your wildest imagining. There is no man you need fear."

Blinking savagely hard, she forced the tears back and faced him with an expression of weary determination. "I can't. Please understand. There could be… there could be consequences."

He nodded almost imperceptibly, and then gave her hand a final reassuring squeeze before dropping it and getting to his feet. "Well now," he said, his business-like manner a startling contrast to his tone of just moments ago, "Shall we begin? There is much to do, and sunset comes apace."

Without waiting for a reply, he gathered several pieces of weaponry and started down-cellar. Eponine watched him in silence, her earlier enthusiasm now tempered by the ache of being pulled in two directions, towards duty and towards desire. Sighing, she shook the feeling off and followed Sims down the stairs.

Author's Note: Thanks so much to the folks who've left reviews so far. Anyone else reading? Please let me know what you think... all constuctive criticism welcomed! I'm less sure of this chapter that I was of the others; I wasn't sure, after I had written it, that I'd earned the moment where Eponine fears for Sims's life yet, or if I need more character development before that seems believable. Does it feel natural to you, or is too rushed?

Thanks for reading!