Something Has Scarcely Begun ( Eponine )

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine shrugged slightly at his question. She could write well enough, better than most of the people who shared her station. But it was still nowhere near good enough for a job. Not an honest one anyway. The messages behind her writings were notes and forgeries for her parents, notes she'd have to carry to people, begging them for money to care for a sick parent or injured child. Anything for a few sous, or to get a look at a place for a robbery later. And of course, she wrote her own thoughts down from time to time. She wasn't much a chronicler, but it helped her to work a few things out to just write them down. It was good practice too, and Eponine knew she needed that. Her spelling errors were abundant and her vocabulary woefully limited. But she couldn't tell Combeferre about that, her background kept secret for a reason. "I suppose I like to write as much as the next person. I'm just no good at it."

Eponine watched Combeferre sadly as he spoke about the coming revolution and his desire to avoid it entirely. Her gaze never left his, even as he admitted his fear of dying to her. Her fingers tightened on his arm, clutching him like a lifeline, and she chewed the inside of her lower lip thoughtfully. It was a fear she shared with him. She didn't want to lose any of her friends in the battles to come. They had quickly become a second family to her, one she preferred to her blood kin, save Gavroche and Azelma, and the idea that any of them might not make it through the month terrified her. If it were up to her, she'd lock them all in a back room of the Musain and have Mylene hide the key until after the funeral was over. Then they could work out a way to bring about their change peacefully. But she knew that wouldn't be an option. So instead she could offer support and help where she could, and pray they all made it through okay. "Combeferre, you could never be a monster. Nothing anyone says will ever make you a monster. You are quite possibly the most gentle person I've ever met." She tried to smile at him, but only succeeded in turning up one corner of her mouth sadly.

"You can't blame yourself for that. It wasn't your fault. You can't save everyone, even if you are trained. Do you really think the few moments it would have taken you to reach her would have saved her? Sometimes, no amount of knowledge and training can fix a wound." Seeing him this frustrated over just one woman he hadn't known chilled her. How would he survive the battle with his dearest friends in the line of fire? She feared for his well-being, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. She knew too well there were worse scars from fighting than those left on the skin. The unseen ones that woke people in the night or robbed them of their appetite, turned them into the waking dead, those trapped between worlds, still alive, but not really living. She desperately didn't want to see the light in Combeferre's eyes, the fiery passion for life and knowledge, go out in such a way. "Just remember that. Even the best doctors can't save everyone."

"Besides, I wasn't referring to the woman at the parade. She might have been the first shot, but hardly the first the state killed. I meant the children who starve in the street. The women who sell off everything they own, even their dignity, only to die in some frozen alley because they picked the wrong man to proposition. The men literally work themselves to death, trying to keep their wife and children out of the gutter, but never quite succeeding. They might not have had their lives snuffed out quite so quickly or violently, but their blood is still on the state's hands." Eponine drew in a deep breath, realizing she had been speaking rather forcefully and for quite a while. She did mourn for the woman gunned down at the parade, perhaps more than most since her father had indirectly led to her death. But she had seen too many people waste away before her eyes to make the gypsy's death the spark that the Amis had turned it into for themselves. She looked up at Combeferre, hoping she hadn't offended him by trivializing his concerns. She hadn't meant to, only to have him see why she had the view of the whole situation that she did. "That's why you could never be the monster. Because they already are."

[Deleted]

“Don’t say that. Everything gets better in time, with practice.” Combeferre answered with a reassuring smile. He had meant what he said; it had not been an offhanded comment in jest. He believed that she could write if she wanted to—and that was the whole point of the revolution, giving people the opportunity to improve themselves. What was unfortunate was that this new order that he wanted would have to be paid for with blood. It went against everything he stood for, yet he would feel as if he was doing something morally wrong if he chose not to fight, which was why he had cast his lot with his friends.

All of his misgivings were not selfless. He was afraid of death. He had never told anyone that except for her—part of him wondered why he had chosen to admit it to her, but he didn’t regret it. He was afraid of looking a coward, yet he did not want to—and didn’t think he could—kill or even so much as hurt anyone, even though the situation called for it. He knew that he must have appeared ridiculous to her and to his friends for not wanting to lift a finger against anyone, even the corrupt, unfeeling government that had hurt so many people themselves, but he would mourn the loss of any life, even that of a National Guardsman. He would mourn it simply because they were all humans first, citizens second. Regardless of politics, the man that would be aiming a rifle at him was a man the same as he was, with a family, a home, dreams, and aspirations. They could have been friends or even brothers in another life. That’s what why the possibility of taking other people’s lives disturbed him.

He looked up when her hand tightened around his arm. He was not at all put off by the contact. It was comforting, really, which he supposed was the point. In the back of his mind he realized that this was the closest he had been or felt to any woman except for his mother. “Thank you for that,” he managed to say softly at her comment, laying his own hand over hers. “But I don’t want us to lose sight of who we are…I know it sounds selfish but I don’t want to lose who I am. I can’t—I won’t let it change me.”

His face grew distant when she questioned if he really thought he could have saved the woman. He knew Eponine had a point. Even if he had reached her, she had lost too much blood, and he might not have been able to administer aid in time—not to mention the fact that his treatment might not have worked in the first place. “I know, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try.” he responded bitterly. His expression and voice softened and he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry…I just—I wish I could have done something…something more than I did.”

He gazed at her wordlessly as she spoke of the evils the state had committed. He was surprised at how passionate her discourse was—it was just as powerful, just as spellbinding, or rather more so than one of Enjolras’s speeches. He understood how right she was. He knew that the alternative was to sit there and do nothing, which he couldn’t accept. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it and nodded in agreement. “Well, then, I will make it my business to avenge them.”

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine shook her head at Combeferre. She wasn't so hopeful to think her writing would ever be good enough for other people to read, not with the kind of practice she was getting. The whole idea of anyone finding her writings interesting or intriguing was so far outside the realm of possibility for her that it might as well be a miracle. Of course, she couldn't tell him that. Not without revealing what exactly she had practice in writing, or rather, forging. And she didn't dare reveal her criminal side to him if she could help it. Not with the way most people treated her once they found out.

Eponine felt her hand tingle and her pulse speed up slightly as Combeferre laid his hand over hers on his arm. Her eyes remained on his, drinking in his words. Hearing his thanks, she gave him a small smile, barely turning up the edges of her lips. It immediately faltered when he spoke of not wanting the revolution to change him or any of his friends. She knew what he meant, his desire to remain the good person she saw before her now. She wanted that too, and she was willing to stop the whole mess just to keep it that way. She had seen the way bloodshed changed people, and not for the better. It had turned her father into someone she didn't even know if she knew anymore. It had corrupted Montparnasse to the point that he even enjoyed killing, seeking out the shadows and the cold thrill. She shuddered at that thought of that happening to Combeferre and his friends. "Combeferre, the last thing I want is for any of you to change. I like you all the way you are. But change can't be stopped. Life happens and it changes you. Just make sure it changes you for the better. Keep hold of who you are inside."

"You did do something. You got out of there and lived to see another day. Trust me. I've been in enough tight situations like that to know. Sometimes running is the only option. If you had stayed, you couldn't have saved her. And you would put yourself in danger, not just from the Guards either. Mylene saw a man get trampled under the crowd in the panic. Just because you ran doesn't make you a coward. It makes you smart. It makes you a survivor. And because you ran, you can help more people, people who you actually have a chance of saving." She finally looked away, sighing quietly. "You just have to learn to pick your battles."

When Combeferre spoke of vengeance, Eponine's shoulders slumped, her mouth turning down into a frown. She hadn't intended to fire him up for his revolution more, despite what she had said. She wasn't even sure the people she spoke up wanted revenge on the state that did not care for them. They wanted food, a roof over their heads, a steady job that wouldn't be the death of them. They hadn't wanted to die, sure, but she very much doubted that they wanted anyone killed in retaliation. Most were simple, God-fearing folk, who would never pray for injury to others, only for blessings on themselves. She extracted her hand from between his and his arm, taking a seat at the desk they had been at the day before. The warmth of his hand pulsed through her fingers as she reached up to pull the kerchief from her head, shaking her hair out. She folded the cloth in her lap, placing her hands over it. "You can go on your quest for vengeance later. Right now, I want to learn about Aristotle." She smiled up at him, attempting once more to lighten the mood, to draw as much joy and contentment as she could from each moment with him.

[Deleted]

Combeferre mulled over Eponine’s statement about change quietly. He had been so sure that fighting would cause him to lose his identity. He had been a self-proclaimed pacifist for years. Now he felt as if he was betraying his ideals. It was necessary, of course, because of the cause for which they thought. But Combeferre did not want to take anyone’s life, even if it was that of a National Guardsman. He felt nauseas even just entertaining the thoughts of killing living, breathing human beings.

He exhaled and then nodded in defeat when Eponine said that he had done what was best by running away at the parade. He knew antagonizing the woman’s murderers would have helped nothing, and, if the Guard captured him, then he would have most likely been interrogated, tortured, and executed. That would have helped no one. Even so, Combeferre could not help feeling as if he could have done something—anything—in the moment to save the woman’s life. He had always felt a sort of personal responsibility whenever something went awry that he perceived could have been prevented, since it was right under his nose.

Pledging vengeance already seemed so foreign to him. Yes, he wanted the state to answer for their actions, but he did not want the streets to run with blood. Any bloodshed disturbed him. Violence in general, he believed, was a stumbling block to civilization. If riots did break out, they needed to be sure that anarchy and lawlessness would not replace the monarchy. He did not particularly like the idea of a king reigning over them at all, but he was not opposed to the charter establishing a constitutional monarchy, so long as the people were allowed to choose their ruler. In that case he supposed it would be a presidential democracy, like that of America. It was difficult and most likely pointless to think of how to organize a new government when they had not yet toppled the old one. He ceased all fruitless thinking when Eponine let go of his hand and sat down in one of the chairs in the study.

His thoughts again delved into the possible reasoning why he was always awestruck when her hand so much as brushed against his by accident. He was never privy to any sort of sentimentality, which he refused to even suggest was what this was. It was not that she wasn’t desirable, because she was. He was perfectly capable of recognizing a beautiful woman. What he was incapable of, or rather, had no desire to do, was make known his opinions. He would usually push whatever images of feminine beauty he saw from his head and move on to whatever he had been doing with ease, but this was positively ridiculous. He had to be getting sick. That was the only explanation because this was not happening to him.

Smiling at her comment, he nodded and circled his desk, returning to his armchair and reaching into one of the drawers, withdrawing Rhetoric. “Right, then…let’s review what you learned yesterday. The three divisions of rhetoric are what exactly?”

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine watched Combeferre circle the desk and sit opposite her. The tension that had existed in the air seemed to dissipate as she drew them back to her purpose for being there. Seeing the grim expression flee his face and his posture relax, Eponine smiled and leaned forward to rest her chin on her hand, her elbow on the desk. She struggled to think back to the day before, before she had left in anger. It seemed so long ago, but still she could pick her way through the memories. "Political, which is to convince people of something for the future... Ceremonial, which isn't really to convince anyone of anything..." The last kind escaped her for a moment and she held up a finger, silently telling Combeferre that she would remember if given the chance. She knew it was an unfamiliar word, one she had never heard before yesterday, but which one? Her eyes lit up as she thought of it, a smile spreading across her face. "Forensic, to convince people of something from the past."

And so they stayed like that, leaned over his desk, peering over the book, for so long Eponine had long since lost track of the time. She enjoyed herself more than she thought she would. He never pressed the issue of feeding her again and despite her terrible dearth of knowledge, never made her feel ignorant as he explained each concept, breaking it down into simpler and simpler terms until her face broke into a grin and she nodded. Every so often she would look up to find him staring, his expression odd and unreadable, but she always assumed it was him simply waiting for her to answer him. She always smiled and tried to form up what she was sure he was looking for from her.

It wasn't until she looked up at him once to find him peering intently at the page that she realized how dim it had become. It had been hours and the sun was beginning to set behind the rooftops of Paris. Eponine sat up, glancing out the window before looking back at Combeferre apologetically. "I'm so sorry. I hadn't meant to stay so late. You probably have your own work to do." Of course he had his own work. He was a student, with his own duties and responsibilities beyond teaching a nearly illiterate gamine from the slums. Raking her hair back with her fingers, she began to secure her shawl over her head again, tying her hair back under the kerchief. If she left now, she might make it back to Rue Saint-Denis before the shadows grew too long and she attracted the wrong kind of attention from the people in his neighborhood, walking the streets after dark, dressed as she was.

[Deleted]

Combeferre could not help a smile when Eponine correctly remembered the first two branches of rhetoric. As much as it would give him pleasure to think that this was a positive example of his teaching at work, but he thought her to be brilliant. She was much brighter than she gave herself credit. “Very good, very good.” he praised her genuinely. He could tell that she was having trouble with the third and he sat up a little, prepared to help her, but she raised her finger. He nodded in understanding and grinned when he saw her expression change. As he expected, she did recall what he had taught her, without error.

Their lesson went fast—too fast for him, at least. He was completely absorbed into the role of teacher, as she was into the role of student. It was an escape from the talk of violence that pained him so much every day. He was surprised at how quickly she had diverted his mind from his possible death, from his fear of losing himself to the horrors of war, and shifted it instead to his educating her. A few times he lost his focus on the lesson itself, because he found himself gazing at her in awe. He never spent too long staring, and always coughed or looked away to regain his composure. What was it that kept drawing his eyes to her? Perhaps it was the way her entire face became more animated whenever she mastered a particular section of the text. Perhaps it was her smile, or her eyes, eyes like none he had ever seen. Good God, no. This wasn’t happening, he wouldn’t allow it to happen—he wasn’t supposed to feel that way about anyone!

Somewhere along the line he must have let Courfeyrac’s teasing get to him, because his whole concept of himself was not too far off from his—he was the mild-mannered, studious future doctor who had no interest in women, and the voice of reason. How could he have reason if his mind was captive to—no. That could not be it. He was under the weather was all. He needed to make an appointment with his doctor, and soon.

His eyes followed hers to the window, surprised and disappointed that time had flown away so quickly. “Oh, no, not at all. I enjoyed having you. Really.” he stated with a smile. “Thank you for letting me teach you again.” He did think it to be a privilege. He only regretted that he had not spoken to her sooner, it was a shame and a pity that their lessons would be cut short. I may never see her again… he realized soberly. The barricades would end his life and these lessons if fate chose. “Y-you must allow me to escort you home. Please—I know that you can take care of yourself, but we could talk…if you’d like. If you wanted the company. And I’m not too terribly busy…”

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Eponine looked over at him as she secured her shawl over her hair. A small smile graced her lips and she shook her head, laughing. "I think you might be lying to me, monsieur." She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought university students had a heap of work to get through. Isn't that the point of it? So much work, every night, and then you're fit to go out and change the world?" She gathered up the books he was loaning her in her arms, hugging them to her chest. The smell made her smile, vanilla and dust and tea. No matter how many times she smelled it, it always reminded her of Marius, of the dusty books he kept in his flat. So many times she had snatched one from his hands, holding it just out of reach just to get his attention. Her smile grew as she thought of reading out of the next book she grabbed from his hands and the look on his face when she did. Oh how she relished that day. Perhaps she would stop by tomorrow before her lesson, just to see if he was in.

Combeferre's questions drew her back to the present, making her lock away her fantasy in her head again. Would she have to hammer this home to him? He said she knew she could take care of herself, yet he insisted on walking her home. The first time they had properly met, she only barely managed to trick him enough to get away without him realizing she didn't have a home to walk to. If this was going to be a regular occurrence, she needed to come up with some better excuse. Obviously his well-bred chivalry was going to make it impossible for her to refuse him each and every night. She cocked her head to the side and chewed her lip looking at him thoughtfully. It'd been a long time since someone only wanted to just walk with her, wanting nothing in return. Perhaps she owed him enough to compromise with him. "I'll tell you what. You walk me as far as the edge of the Faubourg, and I can make it the rest of the way alone. That way neither of us is in a dangerous spot come sundown, and you can make it back in time to have your dinner and read your books before bed." As little as she wanted to be caught in his neighborhood after dark for fear of police, she didn't want him in Rue Saint-Denis after dark for fear of the criminals who didn't fear the police. The last thing she wanted was him getting mugged, injured or worse, because he tried to help her to a home that didn't exist and protect her from a danger she could handle herself.

[Deleted]

Combeferre smiled at her question and shrugged. “No, not lying—it depends on the course of study. I do get a lot of work, it’s true, but I try to plough through it as best I can. Tonight though there wasn’t really that much.” Thankfully. He didn’t mind work at all, but even he needed to sleep. That was the difference between him and Enjolras—the leader of their bunch was much more willing to forego sleep for the sake of scholarship than he was. He had had some very late nights, but he also recognized how essential a well-rested mind was to a good education. “I’m not always working—sometimes I read, for fun. And play chess. You know how the saying goes. All work and no play…” Oh dear, did she think him dull? He didn’t know why it suddenly mattered so much to him, but it irked him to think that that might be her view of him, which was why he was suddenly so defensive.

She looked conflicted about his offer to walk her home. He couldn’t imagine why…it was perfectly innocent, just as it had been the night they met. He had gathered that she was stubborn, and accepted that, but couldn’t she gather that he cared about her? It wasn’t just out of duty or chivalry, he was truly worried for her safety. He didn’t mean to injure her pride by feeling that way. He worried about everyone, sure, but this felt—this was—different. He couldn’t explain it. And it wasn’t just the worrying, it was the staring, it was the blush that heated his face whenever their eyes met…good God, he couldn’t be fancying her, could he? Not that that was a bad thing, was it—no, no he couldn’t be thinking like this now, there was so much to think about, other than her, even if he wanted to…

He was going to protest that the Rue Saint-Denis was still dangerous—for anyone—but gave up trying to argue with her when he realized that she wanted to compromise. “Very well. Let me just get my hat and coat.” He slipped into the other room, grabbing his blue coat and worker’s hat which he pulled down over his flaxen hair. He then walked out into his sitting room where he received visitors. “Ready, then?”