Serenity Cove, Wednesday Early Evening

Éponine wasn't one for sentimentality -- or at least, she wasn't likely to admit to it. The way she'd grown up, it was only one more unneeded complication that at best would be an inconvenience and at worst could get you killed. But despite that she'd gone and allowed herself to indulge it, to entertain notions about young Monsieur le Baron Pontmercy who'd once lived next door and even more stupidly let those notions run away with her. And where had that gotten her?

Well, in the end, if she made herself look past all the anger and resentment and desperation even if it was terrifying to do so -- it had gotten her here. Despite the fact that she should have died 181 years ago today she, the last person in the world who ought to deserve a reward like this, was alive.

( Cut for lengthy introspection of a fairly somber variety. )

No, she wasn't a sentimental person. But surely for a few minutes, today, she could allow herself to be.

She tucked her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, rocking back and forth gently in the sand as she stared out over the water. She sang, as she always did, snatches of song in her rough voice -- bits of the lullabyes she would sing to Gavroche as a baby when he was crying and Maman couldn't be bothered to see to him, tunes she'd overheard while standing outside wine shops on the boulevards and watching to see when Marius would walk past.

It wouldn't hurt anything if she spared a few minutes to think of them, at least, would it?

[OOC: Because it's Barricade Day. Éponine's views on the insurrectionists of the June Rebellion do not correspond with my own. Warning for mentions of attempted suicide behind the cut.

Mostly establishy, but open if you want, with an SP warning for this afternoon/evening.]