Éponine slips into a quiet sort of routine like this.
Enjolras compliments her work with her hands, once – sword fighting and writing both – and in those words, too, so that Grantaire shoots her a look and she has to fight back a grin. A real one.
She does show improvement. Her handwriting is atrocious, all cramped and slanted, but she writes quicker, with fewer mistakes. They come to the end of a speech with her as transcriber, which earns her a quiet, "well done" and a glow of pride that lasted the rest of the day.
The draft of the letter is finished quickly. With Enjolras watching over her, she cannot give any outright directions, but certain phrases form hints under her hand. A point on the docks is emphasized; she can only hope he will remember where she and Azelma passed by most in their delivery of letters.
Cosette pens the phrase "and É as well" after the approved "I am safe," and Éponine has to come up with the lie that the Captain of the Cyclamen had been a friend of Baron Pontmercy, and he will be thrilled to hear that Émeric was left unharmed. Secretly, Éponine is pleased at the addition, despite the trouble it gives her.
The Amis… accept Cosette. The wariness does not fully dissipate, but she is no longer 'the baron's betrothed' first and Cosette second. They take care not to say anything that could be used against her – the exact layout of the ship is always described differently to her, Éponine notes – but they are no longer restricted from talking to her at all.
It's a thought that would once have filled her with – jealousy, perhaps, and yet she is content.
(Cosette does get that change of clothes, too – upon Éponine's request, Cosette twists and turns every which way until Éponine is satisfied that it will last them through their escape.
She tries not to notice the lump of dread that clogs her throat at the thought.)
And she knows them.
She learns the story of Bossuet's names, though it is a long and confusing one; learns that, for all his bad luck, his spirits are never dampened; learns that he believes that the best of his luck was poured into finding Musichetta, a kind enough woman by description, and Joly.
She knows Joly, too, and how he fears every malady and studies medicine for the prevention of these ills; how he will tend to those he believes need tending to, despite these worries, and rejoices in every sliver of goodness to be found; how he shares all he has with Bossuet, his dear friend, and they seem to be opposing sides in the highs and lows of luck, he with the worries of, Bossuet with the physicalities of.
She learns how Jehan – for that is what he prefers to be called – is no longer allowed to write the reports because they will devolve into poetry at the ends; how, for all his delicate features, he is as quick with the draw as anything he has ever seen; and she has never known a kinder heart.
She learns that Bahorel takes few things seriously, and is always ready with a witty comment; his sense of humor is bold, so much so that his comments seem to draw offense, but she sees that they are amiably meant; and she learns that he is most likely to instigate a fight, though not out of spite, and she spars with him a few times when Grantaire is unavailable.
She learns how Feuilly is – or was, really – a maker and painter of fans, and she marvels at the intricate art; he came from even worse beginnings than she, fully orphaned; she learns how he is self-made, and has taught himself all he knows, and even pulls from him a promise to show how he improved his writing, so that she may be further taught.
She learns that Combeferre is a student of philosophy, and temperate; more than once she sees him act as the voice of reason for Enjolras, when meetings lead to ideas that have grown grand and fluid and she is scratching out the last of the notes; and still he is no less passionate.
She learns that Courfeyrac, for all the skill with women he boasts, maintains a quiet air of respect, so that the draw is not hard to see; that into the words of philosophers cold and dead he breathes life, warm and personable; that he is quick to the best without imagining away the worst.
She learns that Grantaire believes less in the cause, and more in the man behind it – if anyone can do it, he can; he takes to life with a strange mixture of indifference and vivacity, and this, she thinks, is the reason for the conflict in his humor.
Even Enjolras becomes less of a mystery to her.
He believes in what he preaches, believes it as fiercely and strongly as any martyr, and places faith – undue, even if she would not speak this – in the power of his, of their patria to shake off her shackles of tyranny. He carries the weight of responsibility, of the thought that plans will fail and friends will fall, carries the every need of people who do not ask it of him, who would not thank him for it.
(One sleepless night, when dreams have tormented her half to sickness, she remembers the tale of Atlas, and thinks that this slender, golden-haired revolutionary is too much a boy to bear such weight.)
Quietly, almost unknowingly, she divulges her knowledge to him, giving voice to that which was before unconscious thought.
She tells him that pride leads to unwillingness and rigidity in thoughts, that some are happy in their poverty, or believe themselves to be, that one vagabond is an ocean of divergence from the next, that people do not like to be made some shadowy 'they,' and that actions create ripples that last beyond words.
Of her own situation, she speaks little. That "we did not do well" is the most she says of it, but even with small secrets spilled, she sees adjustments in plans until they lie concurrent with her speech, and she is proud of these university boys, even as she fears the results of their bold plans.
She is taught; she knows; she flourishes; she grows.
She thinks less and less of dwelling within shadows, and less and less of the days ahead. Each passing moment, she grows more comfortable, more at ease.
One night even sees her partaking in a drinking contest with the Grand R himself.
Who challenged who, she will never remember – she vaguely recalls his bold assertions that there were none alive who could best him at drinking, to which she declared that her father once owned one half of a wine shop, and she could drink him under the table – and everyone else ended up too inebriated to recall who won, including their brave captain, to her surprise and delight. She only remembers her arm thrown over Grantaire's shoulders, loudly and drunkenly singing the bawdiest songs she knew.
(If she could carry on like this, where she is waiting, only waiting, she thinks she could be happy, but they are nearing France, and she is afraid.
So much rests on her shoulders, though she knows she could never bear the weight as Atlas does, and she finds herself wondering if it will be worth it.)
A/N: In the slight chance that Javert might be, oh, I dunno – say, the captain of a ship – what would said ship's name be? (Because I might end up naming her something like Justice or Judgement without input.)
And, uh… yeah, next chapter things will be going down. ouo
And that lovely graphic up there was made by justshortofferocious. I'm still in awe. Seriously, go check it out in all it's glory here: post/45754353048/of-sand-and-distant-shores-those-who-whisper