The ship is a sight to behold.
From a distance, it was intimidating, sleek and perfect.
Up close, the illusion of the unmarred ship is shattered; even for the short time she was above, she could spot damage, battle scars patched over and strengthened, but she knows from experience to find the second more impressive.
Her quarters, temporary or otherwise, are located on the middle deck. This is where she has been led, with instructions to 'make herself at home' and left alone.
This is so slight a change to basic routine that, barring the difference in scenery, she could almost not notice it – or, she wouldn't if she had been anyone else. After all, Éponine Thénardier did not get this far in life by being oblivious.
She's barely spoken with anyone beyond quiet affirmations and answers to simple questions – she has given them 'Jondrette' to call her, still fully aware of the impression 'Thénardier' gives to those who were aware of her family's actions in Paris – and with any luck, they've have picked up on how little she wants that to change.
She thinks them idiots, to be sure – who leaves a gamin unguarded when there are valuables about? And there are valuables abounding, now, plundered from poor Marius's coffers, some stolen right from Cosette's room – but then, naïve though they may be, she cannot assume they will be fully unobservant.
And though a cap pulled low over her head and loose clothing might be enough to fool the eye, her voice is not quite so easy.
Convincing a handful of university students, as they are said to be, will not be as easy as tricking an entire ship of apathetic sailors. At least on the Cyclamen she had the advantage of rotating shifts, she thinks sourly. She never spent too much idle time in the presence of any one person, save Cosette.
And Cosette now is… elsewhere. She did not protest when Cosette was pulled away, didn't question where they would take her. Whether Cosette understood any of her intentions, Éponine isn't sure, but she certainly wasn't going to risk cluing her in then.
Still, she did note that they did not seem to be particularly rough with Cosette, guiding the girl more than forcing her along, but though Éponine may have her theories, her half-entertained threads of possibilities, it's hard to know exactly why that is.
No, Éponine has spent most of her time saving her own skin.
She can't say she's exactly pleased to be able to mimic a gamin again, especially seeing as she sounds more like Gavroche than a woman of nearly twenty, but it's a start.
But then, there's the matter of how she's going to get back, and whether she should, or even can, ingratiate herself to them; how to do that is a mystery, even if –
A knock sounds through her thoughts. Her first instinct – to react with irritation – she swallows back.
She does not know whether she is expected to call out or stay silent, to open the door or to wait, but it appears she doesn't need to trouble with this; the door opens anyway
The man who appears, as curly-haired as her recruiter, but in darker hues, slips in and stands, arms folded.
He regards her silently through narrowed eyes, looking amused for no good reason she can tell, until he speaks up suddenly. "Grantaire."
Her brow furrows in confusion she cannot hide. "What?"
"Thought you'd want to know the name of the man you assaulted," he says dryly.
"Oh." She gets the distinct feeling that she is supposed to apologize here. "You nearly broke in the door."
His lips twist up wryly at that. "I did, at that." And, strangely, that seems to be enough on the subject. "Is there a name to put to you, beyond Jondrette?"
She's thought this one over. "Julien."
He lifts an eyebrow, and she bites the inside of hr mouth to keep from scowling.
"My parents liked old romantic stories," she adds by way of explanation. Which is true. She isn't even changing the origin – all she's doing is shaking off the name of the wife to assume the name of the man. A variation, anyway. She's been told the tales long enough that the names are familiar to her, but she doubts something so obviously Roman – or would that be called Latin? – would go without attracting even the slightest bit of suspicion.
Or interest, perhaps. That would be worse.
"Anyway…" he shakes his head. "Joly wants to know if you're hungry. You're to come to the galley if you are. And," he adds, when she's twisting her lips to protest, "that you're to come even if you're not."
She lifts skinny shoulders and mutters.
He's got an easy way of speaking, and she is less bothered when he asks, "do you have any questions? All this must seem strange."
'This is beyond strange,' she wants to say. 'There's no way you can trust me, and you'd have to be completely addled not to notice that I don't trust you' or 'Why would you bother with any of this?' or 'How many of the stories are true?' or 'How do I know what to think of this?' or 'What are you doing? Are you 'heroes' all there?'
And, from that part that still believes in the fairy tails with gilded letters she used to so covet, buried beneath years of cynicism and life, sparked into sudden existence by the absolute absurdity of it all, 'are you really heroes? Do you really want to save us?'
"No," she says.
She's got her legs folded under her, sopping up the remains of her lunch with bread crust and shoving this into her mouth as if she is starving.
(With the rations on the Cyclamen as they were, she was getting by better than she would have on most days. She's going soft.)
It's not great, but it's not terrible, either, and she isn't one to refuse a meal. Grantaire had murmured to her that Joly was a doctor, not a chef, and they were hoping for someone more experienced on the next raid, for all their sakes.
Joly has given her strange looks through this, which tapered off when he began conversing with another, whose name is not known to her, and grows steadily more agitated.
She's listening while appearing ignorant, catching bits and pieces here and there. Now, it's, "yes, I know, but she just won't – well, what am I supposed to do?"
The 'baron's betrothed' is the current subject of interest.
She slides the plate back and slips from the stool, walking closer cautiously and speaking up before
"I'll do it," she volunteers, quiet and hunched.
The two exchange glances, and she pushes ahead. "I served the lady, back." She jerks her shoulder to punctuate this. "She'll accept it from me."
She does not want undue attention, she must learn to slip away and out of notice, she must last here long enough to see shore – but she must also see Marius' grin, and she cannot see that if the little idiot lets herself starve.
And so she finds herself on her way.
(She swipes another roll as she goes, out of habit.)
The brig doesn't look like anything she'd expected.
There's a bench, where Cosette waits – languishes, really – a gothic heroine enduring persecution, mussed hair falling so as to frame her face, and pretty as poetry. Besides this, the room is bare, but it's not damp. It's not even dark.
Still, Éponine's lips quirk up at the sight of the girl still dressed in her elaborate finery, sitting where the boards have warped in so poorly-kept a place as this, amused by the contrast. Cosette looks up then, and smiles at this evident display of amiability.
"Éponine," she whispers. There is relief evident in her watery smile, relief that dims when Éponine shakes her head.
"Julien, for now."
Éponine sets down the trey, and settles on the floor beside Cosette.
"You should eat," she says after a moment.
"I didn't think it would be safe."
Éponine snorts. Little bourgeois girl thinks she knows this, thinks she's wise to the ways of people like this – like me."They won't poison you. If they wanted to kill you, they'd just shove you off and let you drown." She watches as alarm grows in Cosette's eyes, and adds, "an' they'd have done it already."
She leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes. "Eat," she urges again.
She hears the quiet clink of silverware and smiles slightly, one of her intended tasks finished. She only has to wait for Cosette's curiosity to present itself and she'll be on her way to having them both over.
"How do you know?" And there it is.
"You know the stories? Les Amis de l'ABC? That's them out there. They think me a… friend."
The movement stills. "They–?"
Éponine nods, uncaring of whether the girl is watching. "Yeah. Them. I recognize the flag." And the ship, and the speeches, she adds silently.
The sound of movements resumes.
"So I think," Éponine says slowly, giving voice to the thoughts that have tumbled about fitfully in her head, "they won't hurt you. Not sayin' you should trust them or anything, but it's not their style. They'll hold you to ransom, likely." Éponine huffs out a breath. "There's a bit of trouble if they ask for something else, for support, or things like that, but he'll pay whatever they ask to get you back."
"Do you really think so?"
She cracks open her eyes and shoots the girl a sidelong look. Cosette is all dewy hope and trepidation, and she knows she could crush that entirely. For whatever reason, Cosette has listened to her. There's no telling what kind of damage Éponine could inflict here with words alone.
"Yes," she responds evenly, the pause barely noticeable. "For you, he would bring himself to ruin."
A/N: I am so very, very nervous about writing dialogue and screwing up characterization, which I hope I haven't done in this chapter. I tried to do research on each of the Les Amis and, while I did learn a bit more, I'm still fairly shaky when it comes to writing them. However, as I said, I'm forging ahead despite my many, many reservations. It does mean that I will gladly accept any sort of criticism, especially when it comes to characterization. Honestly, I can take wounded pride if it means my writing improves.
"Julien" is the… more French-sounding version of Julius, the husband of Epponina, who Éponine was likely named for.
I'm thinking the ship is something like the Man-o-War, which could carry around 190, for the typical pirate ship look – and, of the usual types, the one that seemed most intimidating.
Also: you are all lovely, and I must thank you profusely for your interest in my poor attempts.