Disclaimer: I don't own Les Mis, that's all Victor Hugo's.
"Should we shoot the boy now?" A subordinate asked his officer, referring to the insurgent they'd taken prisoner from the barricade.
"No, de Colbas." He answered. "Let's see if they're willing to surrender their 'revolution' for their friend's safety."
"They won't." The captive said. The officer turned to face the hand-cuffed prisoner.
"Why do you say that?" The officer asked skeptically. He won't live to see tomorrow.
"Because, I'm just an expendable, unimportant supporter of the Republic...of France. Mes amis will fight without me." His words seemed sorrowful, yet defiant as if he took pride in being slaughtered by his enemies. Confused by this response, the officer asked him:
"What is your name, boy?" But his hostage wasn't listening. His head had been floating amongst the clouds, idling amongst the gods. No longer fighting, he began to think of a poem he'd been meaning to write. "Answer me, if you wish your life longer!" The boy's head suddenly became alert.
"Jean Prouvaire." He said.
"Well, Prouvaire, I believe that your friends will be penetrated by our bullets before we are by their's." The officer replied. Jehan remained silent, tied up, and on the ground. Soothing himself, he started to whisper the poem he'd written for the barricade, standing firm on the Rue de la Chanvrerie. As he murmered his masterpiece, his thoughts drifted to that very barricade.
There was Enjolras, his face fiercely aglow in the gunsmoke. Next to him, stood Combeferre, preaching words of wisdom to the republicans There was Jolllly, tending to the wounded. Feuilly shouted "Poland forever!" from the balcony of the Corinth bistro. Grantaire sleeping off his absinthe, oblivious to the chaos around him. Courfeyrac and Bossuet went around checking guns and ammunition. His friend and brother Bahorel had already been killed. He, Jehan, would not be battling with them. In a physical sense at least.
"They don't appear to be surrendering." Colbas reported to the officer. "Not a white flag in sight. Just their blood-stained red one." The officer looked, disdainfully at Jehan, and nodded.
"His time is up." Colbas when over to where Jehan sat and commanded him to get up.
When he didn't immediately respond, the man kicked the boy in the side of his rib cage. "Get up, traitor." Jean Prouvaire picked himself up, and let himself be led by his captor.
"Traitor?" He whispered.
"Yes. You are a traitor."
"Ah, treason to one's country for one's country is the best kind of loyalty." Jehan said lightly. He began to quietly say his poem. Colbas, now his executioner, stared at the enigma before himself. Then he pushed Jehan in front of him.
"Stop there." He ordered. Jean stopped. "Do you wish to be blind-folded?" He asked.
"No." Jean Prouvaire answered. A twinkle in his sky-blue eyes, he faced his executioner's gun. "I'm ready." Before he pulled the trigger, Colbas asked one last question.
"What were you whispering just now?" Jehan began to recite his poem.
"If I should die, here and now
Listen to me my friend
I will soon be dead
and you will take your victory bow
You have brought the people
Up from the black
You've given us all a chance
Let me go on my way
But hear me when I say
And always be sure..."
He stopped, looked to the sky, then to the majestic wooden barricade down the street. Then, he yelled the last lines of his poem:
"Vive la France!
Long live the future!"
A shot was firing, ringing out loud enough for Les Amis de l'ABC to hear.
A lifeless body, dropped to the gutter, painting it a grotesque scarlet.
Jean Prouvaire's rhyme was over.