Purpose

Chapter 4 – In the Graveyard

Eponine ducked the monster's blow, and thought about the Lark.

She had not thought of her childhood in years – reflecting on that happy time now, in her misery, was both painful and pointless. But just lately, her thoughts had been turning more and more often to the wan little thing that had served as her parent's scullery maid at Montfermeil.

The Lark had moved through the inn like a shadow, a ghost, always making herself as small as possible and moving as quickly as she could, as if stopping for even a moment might make her a target. Eponine, content in her superior position, had scarcely paid the little moppet any attention at all, except to exercise the petty authorities of the childhood pecking order. As such, she never gave the miserable little thing any thought after she had gone… not until much later, when she herself had become a miserable little thing. Then she had occasion to wonder if the Lark was still more miserable than she, smiling a little to herself at the folly of such a thought.

The creature was coming at her again. Absently, she dropped into a crouch and swept one leg in front of her in an arc, taking the thing's legs out from under it. It fell over with a thud, crushing a grave marker and sending excited roils through the thick ground-mist. She grabbed a wooden stake out from the pocket inside her new cloak (the one that Sims had insisted she have, despite her protests) and pounced to drive the killing blow, but in her distraction, the creature was a bit faster than she, and it managed to get its legs under it and run off, leaving her to pounce on nothing more than the broken bits of stone and mist that littered the ground.

Eponine got to her feet and ran after it. As she did, she concluded to herself (not for the first time) that the Lark was most likely no longer more miserable than Eponine herself, but in fact was probably very well cared for. She may not have had much interest in the girl (Cosette, she reminded herself, the Lark's name was Cosette), but she had watched when the man came to take her away. The scene had fascinated her, what with her parents making such a fuss over that little wretch, and the man, who had seemed kindly at first, growing angrier and angrier. But he had showed nothing but tenderness towards Cosette, and in the end he had paid a great deal of money to her parents for the privilege of taking the Lark with him.

Her new cloak. Now here was an interesting comparison. Had the man given the Lark a new cloak? She thought that he had. She knew he had brought her a doll, and it was only now that she remembered how that had scandalized her. The feeling had not been jealousy, precisely (of course, both Eponine and Azelma had many dolls, and most of them were prettier and nicer than the one the stranger gave Cosette), but closer to indignation. The Lark was not to have dolls. That was not the proper order of things.

She caught up to the monster by the cement wall that marked the north border of the cemetery, and with nowhere left to run, it wheeled upon her, savage yellow eyes glowing with hatred and bloodlust. It lunged for her neck, sharpened fangs ready to sink into her jugular. Eponine blocked his advance with one arm, striking the beast in the throat, knocking its head back and away. With the other arm, she brought the stake up and towards the heart, her own bloodlust rising up, pushing all other thought aside.

A short distance away, Sims watched the girl, ostensibly to document her performance, but in truth, he had mostly forgone this responsibility in favor of wool-gathering. His journal lay in his lap, open to the latest entry but forgotten as he watched his charge, anticipating both her moves and her opponent's, marveling at the ease with which she wielded the skills he had taught her. A few short weeks ago, when he had first encountered her, he would have sworn that a stiff wind might well break her in half; now she fought like a seasoned warrior, with a toughness well-concealed behind her small size and fragile appearance.

And yet, that wasn't all he saw, or felt, as he watched the girl fight for her life. He had tried to stay impartial – the mark of a true Watcher, he had been taught over and over at the academy, was not the ability to train the girl, but the ability to remain detached from her, to never come to regard her as anything but a tool with which to battle evil. But as he had trained her, the ferocity of her spirit and the unvarnished gratitude with which she regarded the calling (which, to be fair, was as much curse as it was gift) had stolen his impartiality by inches, until he was forced to acknowledge the deep respect and grudging affection which had replaced his initial skepticism and pity.

Across the graveyard, the fight was ending. Eponine plunged forward with her stake, piercing first the creature's rags and then its heart. Immediately, its struggles ceased. It threw its head back and rent the night with a sky-shattering shriek as it disintegrated. To Eponine, that shriek sounded as if it were made of equal parts pain and cheated misery. It was a sound that chilled her to her core.

And then there was nothing in the graveyard but the girl and the man and the dead who were lucky enough to still be sleeping peacefully. Eponine hurriedly put her stake back into her cloak pocket. Sims hastily gathered up his journal. For a moment, their eyes met across the ocean of grave markers that separated them, and although neither of them knew it, they were each thinking similar thoughts.

She: …new cloak. Like the Lark. Am I the Lark now? Has someone finally come for me?

He: …the others were right. Best not to get attached. A tool can be replaced. A daughter cannot.

Without a word, they started forward, met at the cemetery gates, and left the dead to their rest.