Soon, they will be at the side of the gleaming Diadem, and Bahorel, at the helm, guides them ever closer.
The sun has slipped below the horizon, and even in these fading rays of light, her lettering curls elegantly across her side.
Partial darkness makes those few on deck wary of their approach, but the flag that waves above the, speaking of their homeland, keeps them from shouting down their suspicions. It's a simple gesture, but they will not have to trouble with even these attempts to hide their intentions – and as far as the crew of the Diadem knows, there is nothing really threatening about the behavior of the Barricade (how that sobriquet caught on, let alone persisted enough that even they call it this, he'll never know), only odd.
At his elbow, Éponine is fairly trembling with energy, and even with her face shaded by the cap pushed low atop her head, he can see the edge of a wide grin.
If this stage goes well, she will be rushing forward soon to set down boarding planks.
This, she had announced, and immediately drawn back and into herself as if daring him to challenge her.
He, of course, had no intentions of challenging her, and she had paused to let her anger deflate before poking through stacks of papers to sate her curiosity – no less distracting, but at least not attempting to be so.
And they will know soon, for, at this moment, someone on deck begins to call out to them – "ahoy there! Are you in need of any–?" – it begins.
Something – known to them, of course, but indistinguishable from anything else to those on the Diadem – is tossed to the deck – and the wind, whipping around them, ensures that the fire sparks and spreads.
The urge to control the swell of a fire in any place is strong, but here, on an enormous, floating fuel source for the flickering flames, the urge is overwhelming – and, as far as distractions go, it is certainly effective.
Éponine darts away and, like that, has bridged the gap, with others matching her movements and beginning as well.
Boarding hooks are thrown and secured, the boards themselves are set down, and there is a dash to the Diadem.
Few are prepared enough to actually clash swords – most are taken care if in a way that leaves bruises that will certainly be painful come morning, but which merely incapacitate for now – and the appearance of his pistol makes the two who were, quickly throw them down. These are dealt with in the same way as the others.
It's dishonorable, but safer.
His friends, around him, grin, out of breath and proud.
Quietly – they have not alerted the rest of the crew, and they will not do so now, if they can help it – plans are gone over, and he descends the stairs quickly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac following directly behind.
He places himself first in the line of sight, even if he will not admit it, for who else would he allow to fall, should he make a mistake? No, it must be he that edges to the bottom of the stairs, hearing the noise just around the corner. If their prize is to be found, it will be within.
He motions back to them to have their weapons at the ready, and steps out.
Across the ship, Éponine creeps quietly into the kitchens.
They are a brave and dashing crew, these Diadem lot, with their heads filled up with loyalty to the crown – and little experience. Even her school-boys overtake them easily, she muses, as the crew above seemed almost baffled to be overtaken.
It's enough to laugh at, if she weren't on edge with worry.
Unfortunately, all her wariness does not appear to be enough, here.
She feels the impact, first, weight pushing her down and back, and then pain, blossoming across her back.
She lets herself fall – far easier to go with the current than against it, especially when doing otherwise would hurt so much – and scrambles back and away from the crewmember she has apparently managed to miss, who is wielding an old-looking chair of all things, and who is going in for another swing.
She manages to lift her sword and deflect it, but she is at a terrible angle, and instead of knocking it from his hands, all she manages to do is make her own weapon bounce off of his; a leg breaks off and splinters into a jagged point, and this he drives into her shoulder before she can move back.
She does not scream. This is partly because of the reflex, and partly because she cannot – all her throat manages to produce is a strangled, high-pitched noise of pain.
He has managed to hit the arm that carries her sword, and so she manages to drop it as her fingers spasm. If she cannot manage to retaliate –
But her problem is solved with a loud clunk.
As the man falls, there is Grantaire, holding a bottle of wine likely lifted from this very kitchen.
Gracious words of concern and gratitude are not exactly their way. So she eases herself forward and says, "I must have been doing poorly, for you to risk a thing like that."
He quirks an eyebrow and his lips quirk up as he offers her an arm. Her fingers wrap around his elbow, and she does not pretend to hide her wince as he helps to pull her up.
Transporting the mirror in a smaller ship would help to avoid detection, and to make the ship less of a target, but when it is known for what it is – well, she thinks there cannot be so many aboard that remain to fight back.
This she confirms when they meet with no trouble going below, and when they see a few trussed up, and the mirror in plain sight.
For some reason, she imagined it would be alone in the middle of a room, guarded on all sides, but this is not so. Instead, it looks almost crammed in, this delicate, gilded thing, between ill-used crates and boxes.
Enjolras looks resplendent in his triumph (though this is not exactly what she thinks, for she does not yet have those words to think in), and even for her own small part, she feels satisfied.
Somehow, he notes her wound. It is painful, true, but still she frowns when he asks Grantaire's assistance in transporting the mirror and not hers.
But she cannot be unhappy for long.
They have been successful, no one was seriously wounded – she, of course, is excluded from this count, and it's not so bad anyway – and what a story this will make.
A/N: I'm really paranoid with these lately. I've sort of plotted this out to the end, but there's one part that's just… bothering me. Too much rising-falling-rising-falling, and it seems poor writing – but it's necessary if I can't convey certain points early enough. Thus, writing this was painful and slow. Bluh. Feedback is nice. Feedback already received has been nice. I'll… try to sort out the plot. Sorry it took so long. (Not even sure I like it anyway bluhhh.)