He limped through the room. Everything around him was painfully familiar though it was destroyed. He pulled a broken chair over towards him, slipping down to rest his bad side. Four weeks had past since he was shot three times at the barricade. Four weeks since his friends had fallen. Four weeks since his world had crashed and burned. Closing his eyes he thought back to the boys who had been slain.
The friendly medical student who had been less then a week from finishing his final exams.
The young centre of the amis who had died with a smile on his face.
The nervous hypochondriac who had perished from disease but from a bayonet to the back.
The poor fan-maker who had taught himself everything he knew.
The unlucky eagle whose fate had caught up with him.
The old bully who fought to his last breath.
The poet who would be writing poem after poem about the tragedy that had happened to him.
The orphan who had laughed and sung with the young adults as if he were one but braver then all of them.
The disappointing drunk who had proved himself in the end to be selfless, in every way that matters.
The lover who hadn't made it home to his love.
Enjolras bit back a sob, looking round at the decimated room. It was his fault. His idea had spurred these talented lads to their deaths. They had followed his word with out question, as he lead them to the end. He pulled himself back to his feet, not wanting to sit there in his thoughts. Moving to the window, he looked down to the street below. Women were still halfheartedly pulling apart the barricade, wiping the blood off the streets.
Dark red patches showed where each man had gone down, one by the centre of the street gruesomely familiar. The girl, Eponine, had died there. Enjolras had seen her often at the cafe but never attempted to talk to her, never to learn her name. She had been a kind little soul, obviously devoted to Marius though he hadn't noticed.
Leaning against the door frame, he lightly touched the spike of wood that had saved his life. It had stopped him falling head first to the street below when he was pushed back with the force of three bullets which had only just missed killing him, though it was a close thing. Even the police hadn't bothered arresting him, just left him on the side of the street to die.
In some ways he wished he had.
He closed his eyes.
"There's a grief that can't be spoken
There's a pain goes on and on
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone
Here they talked of revolution
Here it was they lit the flame
Here they sang about tomorrow
And tomorrow never came.
From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lonely barricade..
At dawn.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me.
That I live and you are gone
There's a grief that can't be spoken
There's a pain goes on and on
Phantom faces at the window
Phantom shadows on the floor
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me
What your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will sing no more..."
He took in a shaky breath, tears slipping from beneath his closed eyelids. He could still hear Gavroche singing; Joly complaining about his new illness; Marius debating with Feuilly about the republic; Jehan preaching his poems at the top of his voice; Grantaire ranting about nothing in particular. Enjolras couldn't hold it in, he just broke. The marble statue his friends used to think him, cracked through the heart. He slide to the floor, sobbing with his hands on his face. Tears dripped in to his mouth, choking him. Pure misery threatened to tip him over the edge, sorrow blocking out his mind. He rested his head in his arms, curled on the floor, and he fell asleep to the sound of Courfeyrac's laughter.
Hey! I wrote this at 11pm. No further explanation needed.
(I basically wrote this to make my friend cry ^_^)
Please R&R!