She was not permitted to see them.

Though the ship's illustrious Captain did not believe her capable of physically freeing the Amis – or of much of anything else, really, given that she could roam almost freely – he did think her still attached to them. Rightly so, but it made her task a little more difficult.

Her restlessness quickly morphed into concern, and this deepened into desperation with each moment that passed her by.

In the end, she got her audience.

This crew is not so loyal as the ones they guarded. She needed only draw on her memories of days past to push and prod and intimidate, and she has much to draw from. They misinterpreted her meaning, to be sure, but better they think her a quean than discern her intentions.

It helped that, for all the Captain's words, Éponine is no more than a bonus, and only if he could sway her – and it became increasingly obvious that he could not. Word-of-mouth, then, is all she would good for, to them, and even then, the Amis and their ship remain much better evidence than the word of the gamine. Those who guarded knew they need not take precautions to keep her safe, so it was not overly hard to get past them.

Plans made were fragile, tenuous, no details to map out clean and clear with too many variables, too much unknown and wavering.

If they fooled their captors with false weakness, if they would spring away as soon as the ship touched down, then they could not have theirs, could not take back their Barricade. That the ship is obvious is less the problem – it is meant to be a symbol, after all – but it would be occupied, and it was damaged to boot. Not at all critically, as far as she could tell, but not quite small enough to completely brush away.

No, they would have to hide out, regroup, replan.

If escaping their captors could not be done this way, they could take back the Barricade later, they decided – this crew would want to repair its minor damage, both as proof, and as a matter of pride. (Though she thought it unlikely the Barricade would be deemed a prize, they evidently did not think the same.) La Force would await them, if the sight of the Sentinel's white sails were not to first grace them instead. A keeping-house for the monstrous and the misbehaving, crimes major and minor, containing all these alike before judgment, Éponine is no stranger to this prison.

Let the crew lead her Amis away, let them think all was well, let them brag about their capture and let La Force know who it would hold, know the name of the implacable man who is expected to receive them. She could gather them again, find Grantaire, find Courfeyrac, find Feuilly, and her Amis could be freed once more.

So much time was spent on these flimsy plans.

Once, as she was leaving, drawing away (for she visited often, as often as she could, because what would they have done if that Captain found out? Throw her in with them?), she was able to – speak with him.

"It was not your choice to make," she had told him quietly. They stood close together, not exactly fearful of those outside, not even wary, exactly, but resentful – these words were not for the intruders, and would not be given.

"And what would you have chosen, Éponine?" He sounded more weary than anything, and perhaps he agreed, but she had a point to make and she would make it.

"To stand with you." Her response was simple but resolutely spoken, as true as she knew how.

And he nodded. She could not name the look in his eyes exactly, but nameless or not, she thought – perhaps – that in his believing her, he thought her capable. Of – attempting, at the least, the things she knew she could do, and in that moment she could –

Kiss him.

She did not, of course; the moment faded quickly, and she left, off to curl up in some darkened corner somewhere and think.

Four days, filled with the tenuous planning that spanned that time, and they did all they could.

It was not enough to set her at ease, not even close, but enough to go over mentally, tracing each possibility until she felt sure she must have planned for every contingency.

And in spite of this, she felt sick as she watched Enjolras, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel being led away.

No chance was given for them to extricate themselves, and she herself was held back by snide questions and false concern. She did not bother with hiding her hostility, and if they wanted anything more of her, she did not learn of it.

And this is how Éponine comes to be combing the streets once more on feet quickened by a pulse that thrums so fast the sound nearly takes over her hearing.

She is worried, and this slows her. The sun is past its highest point and slipping lower by the time she manages it any progress at all. She is lost, torn between searching for the separated Amis and her brother, until, abruptly, she realizes she recognizes the small face she sees in the crowd. A glance shows an even younger boy trailing after, and she can identify the pair of brothers with their strange air of familiarity who so revere her own. Thomas, she thinks, and… Alain. If they are here, Gavroche cannot be far behind.

They spot her just an instant after she begins to draw nearer, and they do not shy away, not even when she asks them, as gently as she can manage right now, to bring her to Gavroche.

Normally, she'd scoff at how easily they trust her – the oldest must be eleven, at least, and isn't he old enough to know better by now? – but for the moment, she is thankful.

He is, indeed, close. He stands just out of sight of most onlookers in the shadow of a little café.

A smile lights his face up brightly at first, but soon slips away, owing partly to her own expression and partly to the thought he voices. "Didn't think you'd be coming 'round anytime soon."

"I wasn't supposed to," she says lowly. The two little boys dart over to Gavroche's side as she speaks, chattering blithely to each other. "It went wrong. I need to find – the ones who brought you the letter. Do you know where they went?" Assuming they found him. She hopes they did, that he knows what she means – and then, to her relief, he nods.

She finds Courfeyrac first. His eyes fall first on Gavroche beside her, then to her. She does not bother to hide the worry on her face, and so his "Éponine?" is soon followed by a frown and, "Éponine, what's happened?"

She breathes in deeply and begins. "There was… an ambush. A day out."

His eyes widen. "The Sentinel?"

Éponine shakes her head. "Some other ship. After the bounty, or glory."

"And everyone is–?"

"Taken. Not hurt, but captured."

"Where?" Not Courfeyrac, this time – she glances to the sound to see Grantaire, with Feuilly behind him, looking startled.

"A prison, La Force, meant to keep them until – the Sentinel arrives to collect and judge them." Éponine digs her nails into the skin of her palm, the weight of the situation hitting her. If they are not quick enough, or if anything, anything goes wrong… She rubs her knuckles across her forehead. "The Barracade is taken, but meant to be turned over. She'll be empty by the time we need her, or mostly so. Enough."

Grantaire steps forward to carefully pull away her arm and lay a hand on her elbow. He speaks, his voice surprisingly gentle. "There is a plan, dear 'Ponine?"

"Beyond finding a way in as soon as possible? No. I–" And then she cuts herself off.

She does have an in – or she might. It's nothing she can guarantee, but it's better than trying to break everyone in, navigate through, and try to escape, and she can't believe she didn't think of it before.

"Wait. Gavroche," she begins, turning to face the boy who has remained attentive. "Have you seen Azemla of late? I think this calls for a little reunion."

A/N: My tumblr is Cannibalisticskittles, if you wanted to know. I tend to take requests there more often than anywhere else.
This one was hard to write for some reason.
And we are very, very near the end, now.