I ain't much of a poet but I know somebody once told me

[libertin]

Who| Courfeyrac & Open!
What| Resurrected French kid has no idea what the hell is going on.
Where| The Central Common Area + District 11 Suites.
When| The day before the trains leave.
Warnings/Notes| N/A

His head was spinning when he was finally left alone in the suites. It felt like it had been an eternity of listening to those people barking at him in words he couldn't process quickly enough to understand, overwhelming to the point that he thought he might lose face and be sick about it. Wasn't he dead? He didn't specifically recall dying, but he remembered the distinct impression that his own demise had been imminent. If he was dead, was this place hell or heaven? He'd never been a particularly devout young man, but he knew none of this was in the Bible.

Thinking about it hurt, and all Courfeyrac wanted to do was to go dig a hole for himself and return to his time and his sleep. He wanted to wake up from this crazy dream, return to Paris, be anyplace but in this city, in this building, in these wretched rooms.

Depressed, he looked about for a corner in which he could hide and regain his pride, or perhaps fall asleep again and wake up feeling normal.  He felt as lost and tired as he looked, and if not for his last shred of vanity, he might not even care.

Comments

[gardienne]

"Well... Monsieur Draco slit my throat. Then Monsieur Wesker broke my neck. Then a man smashed my head when Monsieur Malfoy magicked me to eat Howard's face. That was a relief... Then Monsieur R ate me so Monsieur Maximus chopped my head off. Like the guillotine, you know? And now Madame Katniss shot me in the eye."

She was quite casual in her attitude to her deaths. Only Draco's had hurt, really. But he was a nasty man. He had drawn her death out, making the slit just deep enough not to heal, but shallow enough for death to last hours.

[libertin]

"That isn't--" He stopped himself short, so as not to dismiss any of what she had said to him. He hadn't expected that sort of explanation, rather, he'd been expecting her to detail the method by which a person should be brought back to life again and again, only to be killed.

Concern washed over him, not enough so that he seemed stricken, but enough to show that he was not unmoved by her repeated executions. "If those people had murdered me, I should not call them Mesdames or Messieurs. I think I should hate them."

[gardienne]

"And for why? Is there a reason, Monsieur?" She pushed her greasy hair back from where it had flopped over her eyes.

"It does not matter if you like them or no. It is like Paris, do you not see? You call those people you do not know, 'Monsieur' or 'Madame' so they do not hurt you or accuse you of stealing to the police and get you hanged or beheaded. Your friends, or the people who cannot hurt you, like I to you, you say their names."

More and more she likened this place to Paris, but now, rather than being delighted in the comparison, it left her numb. She had left Paris behind. She wanted a better life. But... but it wasn't to be here. She sighed.

[libertin]

"What they did to you is barbaric." What this world, and their own, had done to her was so. He knew he did not need to tell her as much, realized even that it was not his place to say anything about it, but he didn't hold his tongue, whether it was impolite or not. "Those people do not deserve honorifics or even names."

[gardienne]

"Is it not better, Monsieur, to satisfy them so you might hope that they will not hurt you again?"

She leaned forward, elbows on her crossed knees and her face in her hands. Her earlier icyness was all but forgotten in the interest of debate.

"Come. Imagine yourself as a woman like I in Paris. I lived with my Mama and my Pa and my sister, all of us. Gavroche has already be thrown out - and you know if you do not do as you are told, you will be, too. So you stand on the street and you call out, but nobody answers or they insult you. No money, so Pa beats you, and the next day you stand though your arse is black and blue and your arms and stomach are bruised. So you curtsey and you say, 'Monsieur' and a man takes your offer. And perhaps there are insults or a comment on my ugliness and you hurt all over and you wish perhaps to die rather than do it again, but you smile and curtsey, even if it hurts, and you say 'Monsieur' again because you know you shall have money and avoid a beating."

She shrugged. "It is the same. You say it so you do not anger them more. And la - it is a habit I have, you know?"

[libertin]

Courfeyrac winced at the name Gavroche, and he suddenly found himself recognizing her. The pang of guilt in his chest was difficult to ignore, even more so as she put forth her scenario.

"I can imagine all I like, but I cannot say what I would do if it had been me instead of you. I will not fault you or anyone else for surviving, Mademoiselle," he finally answered after contemplating briefly. He very nearly called her by her name, but then thought perhaps he should pay her some respect. "But I think I am made from something else. If someone were to lash out at me, I would lash right back at him."

[gardienne]

She sighed. "I have said, I am not a Mademoiselle. Just 'Ponine. I do not have such a title. I see you recognise my brother's name - well, I am not so good as he."

She sighed again over Courfeyrac's simple reasoning.

"Would you lash out? If your Pa only needed to look and the gang should have hold of your arms whilst your Pa walloped you? Or if you knew your man would lead you away by a knife at your back? It is surprising how fast you learn not to fight back, Monsieur. Perhaps here, you will learn the same lesson."

[libertin]

"To submit is to be a slave, Eponine. I am a lot of things, but I'm not a slave." He could go on insisting it forever if he had to. Somehow, he was sure that this logic could be applied to anyone, even to the most miserable creatures of humanity. "You don't have to be a slave anymore."

"I knew your brother, Gavroche. And, I suppose, I should have known you, in a way. I apologize for not recognizing you." He meant that quite sincerely. He'd meant her no offense, difficult as she was being, trying as she was with his patience.

[gardienne]

"And why should a grand man such as yourself recognise a girl who begged from you, day after day?"

She laughed bitterly. "Say what you must, Monsieur. Call me a slave if you will. I have the chains, no?" She waved her skinny left arm, made heavier by the thick cuff locked to her wrist and emblazoned with the Capitol insignia.

"Here, and in Paris as well... it must be lovely, Sir, to be rich enough to refuse slavery. Here... Monsieur, I am sorry for you, for it is harder for you... but you will learn. And that is all. Even Monsieur Enjolras has succumb."

[libertin]

What she had said was painful to hear. He felt like she was hitting him as hard as she could and right where it hurt, lashing out because he was a target and he was there. Because he'd been an optimist, he'd been unable to choke down the reality that not everyone had the want or need to push back when cornered. It was like a slap in the face, declaring that he would rise up, knowing that he couldn't even count on this admirer of Marius' to give a cheer of support.

Angrily, he sighed, "I told you already, not 'Monsieur'. Just Courfeyrac. Give me that at least."

Additionally, he wanted to remind her that he was not Monsieur Enjolras and that the weaknesses of his friend did not necessarily apply to him. But he was instead taken in by the strange cuff on her arm, and without asking permission, he reached to grab it. "What is that for? Who put that on you?"

[gardienne]

"A rabbit, Monsieur. A rabbit asked me to wear his jewellery and he closed the clasp around my wrist." She shook her head, scornfully. "But no - no. Who do you suppose put it on me? Who was it who held me by the shoulders so hard I had bruises, who grabbed my wrists so hard when they put me in chains in Paris?"

She stroked her finger along the cuff. "You see? We could be in Paris still."

[libertin]

"There is no going back to Paris," he said gravely, narrowing his eyes as he contemplated whether he was truly mad at her or simply annoyed. She was trying him, that was for certain, and it was a struggle not to raise his voice, for he wasn't always the most patient of men. "Forget Paris. It doesn't exist any longer. I am dead and this is is my afterlife, and yours, too."

[gardienne]

"What? Are you mad? I am not dead!" She shrugged. "Soon, yes. Soon, my Papa will have me struck down in the street. He won't do it himself, the coward." She spat over the side of her armchair. "But he will have Claquesous and Babet do it. Or Montparnasse shall slit my throat, and they'll find me, half eaten by dogs, and they'll throw me into a pit. Or the winter - oh yes, I should have died, if I were in Paris, Sir... oh yes. And I die here as well. Over and over. Oh yes. You will soon feel dead, Sir. Empty, as if the air should blow you away, empty, like so many bellies in Paris."

[libertin]

"I told you, Eponine. I am already dead. And I find it a liberation. But perhaps it is simply a matter of perspective, or of time."

Or he very much wanted to, at least. Could he still be wounded? Of course. But he could try to rise above it, not let the brutally enslave him. It frustrated him to no end that she would stay fixated on their destinies in Paris. He held his own very close to his heart, but his whole sense of sanity hung on being able to find serenity with his life, death, and choices.

"You are trying me on purpose. Does it amuse you to push at me? Do you want me to push you back?"

[gardienne]

"Sir, you tell me I am dead, and I tell you no. What is so trying, so pushing about that?" She shook her head. "Push all you like, Sir. Say as you wish. You cannot hurt me. I have heard it all before."

[libertin]

Courfeyrac wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, but he somehow refrained. But he was angry now, angry enough that his volume spiked, "I am not trying to hurt you. Listen to me, for God's sake. Is there nothing beautiful or redeemable in your life? Nothing at all to look forward to? Nothing worth saving or loving? Are you so miserable that you've lost the ability to hope? One small girl cannot filled with such misery. I refuse to believe it. I refuse to believe that's all that's inside of you. Have some pride. Pick yourself up for God's sake."

[gardienne]

She blinked at his words, and slowly, almost as if she was waking from a dream, or a nightmare more, she uncurled herself and stood, shakily.

"And why? Why should I hope, Sir? To think of a better life? To dream of a dress or shoes or food for my belly? To hope for a Papa who pats my head instead of wholloping my arse, or a Mama who cuddles instead of pushing me to the streets? Should I hope for someone to love me? Well, Monsieur, do you know what I think of your hope?"

She hoiked up what she could, and spat, hard, at Courfeyrac. She didn't care if it missed or not. That done, she seemed to shrink somewhat in demeanour, almost curling in on herself so her shoulders were hunched and her knees bent a little. She shook her head, and stepped back, just one step.

"There is no hope. No hope at all. And it is crueler to think that there is, to make me think it, when the opposite is true."

[libertin]

It all happened in slow motion for him. One second he was formulating something to say to her, the next he was wiping the spit from his cheek, astonished and disgusted. He had wanted to feel something kind for her, wanted her to see how easy it would be to find something within herself to hope for. But talking to her was like talking to a child, or worse, to an animal. If she could not find something about herself to care for, then why should he bother?

"Then you are lost," Courfeyrac proclaimed. "If you refuse to care, why should anyone care for you? I tell you, your Papa and Mama do not control your destiny. There are surrogate mothers and fathers, if that is what you need. That man who doesn't love you is not the only one in the world. There are other men who could love you, and more still who could respect you. There are possibilities beyond what you have seen and what you see right now.

"You will be lost and alone if you treat people this way. You will become even more bitter and it will make you ugly from hate. Is that what you desire? To hate and to be hated? To tear apart the hearts of others because your heart has been broken by people who ought to have known better? Do you wish to be pitied? I will pity you if that is what you wish, though I think you are better than that." He wiped his hand on his pant leg, though some of the disgust in his demeanor had been replaced by something else, some yet unnamed emotion. "I shall say it again, have some pride. Do not shrink. And if you are going to strike at me, do it like you mean it."

[gardienne]

"FINE." She roared her reply, her hoarse, croaking voice cracking as she finally, finally released a little bit of the anger building up inside her. "FINE." Her hands balled into fists and she rocked forward on one foot. "Fine. I am lost. I am ugly. I am bitter and hated and broken and - OH, Monsieur! How I loathe you - all of you, thinking you know, thinking you stand for the poor. No - you know NOTHING. You know nothing of what it is like for any of us, and you are so ignorant, you cannot see it, and OH, how I hate you for that. I hate you, Sir, I do, truly. I hate all of you. You are all the same - how can you stand there and tell me how to feel? Have you paid for women such as i? Well, imagine standing to see the other women chosen - even though you don't want to be. Imagine knowing that you can't go home until you do it and get your Francs. How many men -" She shakes her head.

"There is NOTHING in this world for me. Nothing. So do not tell me to hope and dream because I shall not do it. And do not tell me that you shall pity me, for I do not want that either. I will have none of it. Can you not see that it burns my heart every time? It is as if a knife has been dipped in snow and plunged through my lungs. So you might keep your hopes and your dreams and your pity, for I want none of it. Now, Sir, LEAVE ME. Go on your way. Find your friends. Make your way, and die your death in the arena, for I do not care."

[libertin]

If anything, he was glad to have witnessed this outburst, because it proved one thing very clearly to him. Eponine did have a soul, buried somewhere under that scab. She was hurt and wounded and she was cornered and angry, and he felt that she was justified. Was he her intended target? He shouldn't have been. But he could take it, though it still bothered him to be her victim.

Keeping very calm, all things considered, he took one step toward her, just close enough that he could impose a little. "That's good, Eponine. You can use that rage. Do not let it consume you. Don't let it go to waste." And with that, he bowed his head to her and turned away. "Until we meet in the arena, my dear."