Having never been personally confined in this desolate place, she has only distant memories and descriptions to go off of, and every step she takes is done so with lingering trepidation, the fear of failure, of being caught.
The prison is all grays and cold stones and silent, sleeping prisoners.
Well, most of them are sleeping, anyway.
As they progress, they find that even their quiet footsteps are enough to rouse a handful of the occupants.
The innocents – those accused of minor crimes, or those falsely accused who know the evidence to support them will soon come to light – and the desperate – unknowing of the system and afraid of the consequences – are inclined to chatter, to call out and plead, but they are also the most easily intimidated.
The others – those almost certainly likely guilty – are familiar with the concept of a prison break, and they know simply calling out will not help them.
Some of them only stare with faint interest as the group passes and then turn away; a few attempt to quietly bargain and then shrug off the lack of response; one gives them a cheery wave and softly wishes them luck and a lovely evening.
There is only one who gives them significant worry.
They are getting closer – they must be – when they hear the footsteps of a guard up ahead, and they flatten against the cells, attempting to make themselves small and unnoticeable, when the prisoner within the cell near her speaks up, muttering groggily, then clearer. "Evening," he greets, and from the sound of it, he is nearing the bars.
"Shhh," Éponine murmurs, distracted. With any luck, the guard will simply continue walking along the hallway, and they will be able to turn and continue on the path where he came from.
To her growing dismay, however, he does appear to hear the guard, and only grows louder. "How wonderful to see you," he continues, as if oblivious, "but, you know, I think there is someone who would be a little less thrilled…"
He's going to give them away, alert the guard in an attempt to curry favor. Anger wells up within her – she has not, has not, come this far to be thwarted by the likes of this.
She whirls, one hands clamping tightly to a bar, the other darting just past to grasp the front of the man's shirt, and snarls, "I swear if you continue, I will–"
If you asked her later what she'd said, she couldn't tell you, but it had the effect of silencing the man, as well as making him grow pale. She releases him, and he stumbles back.
She has enough time to adjust herself into the shadows and steady her breathing when the guard passes. He sniffs and rubs at his nose as he passes, muttering something about damp prisons, and does not even spare a glance their way.
She does not sigh in relief, but when Courfeyrac's hand lands on her shoulder, urging her away from the cells and inclining his head towards the way ahead, she sends him a thin smile, and they set off once more.
Whether they would be grouped together or not was something she wondered about, worried about. What if they were separated, one each to their own cell, in every corner of this prison?
So they continue peering into darkened corners until they, at last, see a familiar face looking back – Bahorel.
He jolts upright when he sees them, grinning widely, and she cannot help but match this in turn.
Courfeyrac and Feuilly continue on as she pauses with Grantaire – they have devised this plan already, with one to stay to open the door and the other to keep watch – already at work.
It's one part finesse to three parts force, and she has a feeling this particular cell will not truly hold its occupants for some time, if the distinctive crack the lock gives before yielding is anything to go by.
Bahorel is fiercely happy, and she loses a bit of the panic that made her movements jerky as it bleeds into her.
The feeling only grows when they catch up to not only Feuilly and Courfeyrac, but Joly and Bossuet as well, and, as she finds Jehan, it is nearly taking her over when she is able to pick out Combeferre's voice, and a moment later, hears Courfeyrac cheerfully report, "Éponine gave a speech."
And she can imagine who that is directed to.
She finishes with the lock before turning around, pretending not to hear until she turns to see Enjolras quirk an eyebrow, looking at her even as he answers, "did she now?"
She ducks her head. "It was terrible," she murmurs, and there's a smile tugging up her lips, "I should leave the speaking to you, bourgeois boy."
And then there is no time for words, only navigating the labyrinthine prison in their attempts at freedom, moving quicker the closer they get to the entrance – and if she ends up near their fearless leader more often than not, well, that's just coincidence, isn't it?
They are slow and quiet only until they are sure they have passed each guard but the last, and this one, they run past – little point in being discrete when the whole city will soon know of their escape. She sees it for a fraction of a moment, but she is tempted to laugh at the startled look on the man's face.
They only stop running when they are several streets past, well on their way to the docks. Éponine pauses a moment to catch her bearings, and she chances a glance at Enjolras.
There is light coming over the rooftops, glinting golden, catching in his hair, and it is this that makes the situation sink in – they did it. They made it. They have come from the darkness, the unknown, to her city streets. They will not be kept, not be captured again. They are going to be okay and she is so happy she could –
And she does.
Éponine darts forward, placing her hands on his shoulders to draw herself up. There is a moment of hesitation, hovering before him, golden curls at the edge of her vision and her nose bumping against his – and then she tilts her face but a fraction until it's now her lips that brush against his and there is contact as her fingers flutter against the now-familiar coat. It is brief, light, barely there, but for a moment he follows after, inclining his head further after she began to draw away.
He looks – almost – reluctant. "Éponine…" There is a world of questions he has fit into the syllables of her name, and in his tone, perhaps, answers.
And she is not so worried, not now. She feels as though she must temper her actions with words, hoping to convey through some subtlety in tone or motion what she does not fully understand, not yet, to say that she is not so much running away right now, just… putting off. She breathes in deeply and speaks in a rush, each word weighed with the enormity, the hope, of potential.
'"You know how you wanted – to sway the people? To draw sympathy, to find a supporter?" She takes a step back, away from his searching eyes. "Well… you've got one, and whether she wants to or not, she believes." And then she is back with the others, moving again, half-daring to think it will be just fine in the end.
The Barricade is empty.
Two – crewmembers, she recognizes dimly – are sleeping nearby, evidently supposed to be on watch. They have no trouble slipping by, or, indeed, in beginning to cast off.
Éponine stands, taking in the view from the deck. It is very likely she will not be able to return for some time, but – she imagines her city will carry on just fine without her, and that she will be… happy.
And she is taking this in until she is pulled gently, a hand on her arm tugging her to face someone.
Enjolras.
She should apologize for earlier actions now, or deny them – how, exactly, she doesn't know, but the thought crosses her mind for an instant – but she wants, she wants, she wants, and against all reason, she thinks maybe her selfish desires just might be granted.
He grins, a flash of teeth (she thought he was like fire when she first she saw him, and sometimes she thinks that still), and there it is, in his eyes again. "You know," he says, and her heart quickens as he draws nearer, "you can't give me a question like that and not expect me to give you an answer sooner or later."
And then he's tugging her closer still – and this time, she notices – all the little details she must have, somehow, missed. She notices his fingers curled at her waist and cupping her jaw, the steady thrum of his pulse against hers – and there it is.
Happiness, burning away at her.
When they part, she finds it hard to break out of this state, flushed and nearly gasping until she sees him grinning at her current condition
She cannot bring herself to really scowl at him, though. It's curious – no matter how hard she tries, the corners of her mouth keep floating up. How odd. Perhaps it has something to do with the way he looks equally flushed, and his breathing is now uneven.
From somewhere behind, there's a whoop.
When she shakes off her haziness to glance behind, she is greeted by faces displaying an array of emotions – none of which being surprise.
"Finally," groans Grantaire, a smile pulling up one half of his mouth. "You two might not be so hopeless after all."
"I bet on another week," murmurs Bossuet desolately as Joly pats his shoulder.
Bahorel is triumphant as he nudges Jehan, equally pleased, as Feuilly shakes his head and trying to suppress a smile.
Courfeyrac is attempting to look innocent (it doesn't work in the slightest) and Combeferre wears a faint smile and that look that somehow seems to say the pair really shouldn't be startled by this.
Enjolras, still holding her, now releases her slowly.
For a moment they simply watch each other, and then what he said occurs to her. Éponine ducks her head and pushes her hair back and says, "I think I'm satisfied with that answer."
She delights in the softening of his gaze.
She knows there are sails to maintain and courses to chart, after all, but she could stay like this for – well, she doesn't know how long, just dwelling in this moment.
And then she hears Bahorel swear he saw the dumbfounded looks on the crew that had captured them, and she laughs, her voice made breathy by adrenaline and joy, and she is reminded there is happiness to be found all around her, now.
And – there might be time for more of this, later.
The Barricade travels the distance easily, down the Seine, growing closer and closer to open ocean.
On and on and on they go, wind through her hair, pulling taut the sails, and it looks as though luck is finally, finally, on their side.
At least, it seems to until she notices the ship.
It cuts an imposing figure, its mast rising up like a spire, the line of it unforgiving.
Her stomach drops out and she stills, held in place on the deck.
The Sentinel.
A/N: Believe me, I would love to just write all the time and not have to bother with projects needing attending to. Fortunately, I have just finished my Senior Exit Project, and I have prom tonight, and everything is wonderful, if giving me reason to write quickly. (Sorry if anything seems too rushed.)
And – seriously, if I get even a tenth of this kind of feedback on my book, I might be the happiest author in the world. May I declare my undying love for you all now?