fh_dungeon | Twisting Paths of the Dungeon, Somewhere, Thursday

Twisting Paths of the Dungeon, Somewhere, Thursday

The pathways of the dungeon had changed overnight. Anyone who had stayed in a room beyond their welcome had found themselves booted out back onto the hallways that belonged to their camp and feeling pressed down by the sudden increase in gravity. The doors of yesterday had closed. Other doors had now opened.

And other routes.

[ pathways | gremlins | space battles | room of the past | flooded room | free space | strange vault | ooc NOTE: room doors not belonging to your camp will lock when you enter. so please designate whether you're from camp 1 or the joint camp 2/ camp 3 ]

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"I could wish the entire damned place to hell," Éponine answered in a tight voice, in the moment before it caught up to her that someone else could see this, and know just how far she'd fallen.

In the memory, her father had come over to them and was now taking the younger Éponine's cloak away, tearing the sleeve off her blouse and muttering about how she didn't look pitiful enough to get anyone's sympathy, let alone money; meanwhile, Azelma continued to muffle her crying.

"But never mind that!" she exclaimed with a too-loud laugh to cover up her sudden sense of shame. "It's nothing but tricks anyhow, isn't it?"

"Cruel illusions," Jack answered, his mouth tight. "Dreams of a cruel sorcerer. That's all."

But off to his left, he saw something out of the corner of his eye: A different Parisian street at night, full moon high above. Two men, Jack being the younger, casually chatting about politics.

And a corpse beneath a streetlight spilling blood into the snow.

He determinedly ignored all of it.

Éponine noticed, but not with any alarm; that was a familiar enough sight to her, as well.

"It's stupid, really. What's the use of this, making us see things?"

She winced when she heard herself cry out and her father say, "There, that's more like it. Now get rid of those shoes; you'll get more if your feet look like they're about to freeze right off." She didn't have to look to remember how he'd given her a black eye and sent her out to beg.

"Reminding us how much worse it could be?" Jack suggested, anger coiled in his voice. "No one's selling me or making you beg today. We should bloody rejoice."

"I could have done without the reminder." Éponine's voice was more brittle than angry. "I shouldn't have come here."

"We didn't know what it would be," Jack answered. He wasn't sure if she meant the room or the island; he supposed his answer worked for either.

Éponine didn't regret the island for a moment -- well, maybe when it did things like this, but those were aberrations. This room, though . . . she was convinced this was some kind of punishment.

"S'pose I deserved it," she muttered, "though I can't say the same for you."

Jack raised his head, trying his damndest to shake off the residue of the look on Jaromir's face.

"You didn't ask for that any more than I did," he said. "You were older, that's all. And even if you had to beg, he didn't need to beat you first."

"I helped him," replied Éponine in a fainter voice, staring off at the scene under the bridge where her father was casting speculative looks at the men watching as her younger self left Azelma and Gavroche behind to make her way out to the street. "I always helped. He said I was a good girl, but he lied to everyone else, too."

Jack slanted his eyes to her. "You know you're doing exactly what whoever made this room wants us to do."

As opposed to Jack's choice to repress and deny everything it made him feel -- which was completely healthy.

Éponine gave him a half-smile devoid of any mirth whatsoever.

"It's nothing different from what I do any other time." Except the part where she normally didn't admit to it. She glanced briefly toward the place where they'd seen his memory, then back. "Should I pretend otherwise?"

"Well, no," Jack said, trying to work it out himself. He couldn't find the right words and gave up. "Let's just find the door."

"Yes, please." The words were laced with a mixture of vehemence and despair. "There isn't anything of use at all, to anyone, in here."

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Twisting Paths of the Dungeon, Somewhere, Thursday

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