The Redemption Song

All hope was lost now. He knew that. They all knew that. They were going to die and the revolution was going to die with them. It was obvious. You could see the fear in their eyes. The fear of the schoolboys who had never held a gun. The fear of death.

The people had left them, their passion, their enthusiasm wasn't enough to keep them all until the end. And the end could have been different if they were willing to fight for this common dream among les Amis, the dream of a better future, of equality. The dream of freedom.

The few revolutionaries left were entering the café in an attempt to survive. They were deceiving themselves with fake hopes. It's not easy to accept failure and death. But this was their fate. Enjolras was standing outside the door, waiting for everyone to get in before he did the same thing too. He was still alive, he tried to. But the wound on his shoulder wasn't helping him. He was shot when he tried to save another man, a brother of his. He ignored it. There were more important things to do than paying attention to a wound. He was bleeding. He didn't care.

Some of les Amis were still out, and then a gunshot along with a scream covered all the other noises.

"Jehan!!!"

Combeferre hit the guardsman who had shoot Jehan with the cane of his carbine and run towards his dying friend. He fell on his knees, taking Jehan's head on his hands. But it was too late. The bullet had found him on the chest. Jehan looked at him, his hands trembling. He was drowning in his own blood.

"Long live the future Combeferre", he whispered weakly. "Long live the future...". He passed away with a smile of hope remaining on his lips, the hope of the poet. Combeferre sobbed and looked up to heavens, breathing heavily. Was this what he was fighting for?

"Combeferre".

He turned his head at the cracking voice calling him. Enjolras was still standing out of the door waiting for him. He barely held his tears. Combeferre stood up and unwillingly left his friend's dead body to get in the café with Enjolras who closed the door behind him. It was the only thing he managed to do before the guardsmen started trying to break it. The two of them were the first to go up on the second floor. The door broke, the guardsmen got in. But their lives didn't matter to them as much as the desperate cries they heard from downstairs. The gunshots didn't let them last for long. Silence fell. On the second floor there was now Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Joly. They were the only ones left. The last ones. And they were dead. Although they hadn't been shot yet, they were dead.

The guardsmen didn't get upstairs. They put their carbines on the ceiling. Enjolras couldn't recognize his friends. Combeferre, once serious and calm, with great humor when it needed, was standing beside him, his agony and fear painted in his face. Joly, always smiling and having fun, without hesitating to show his brave soul at times, was now trembling. And Courfeyrac. The kind and happy Courfeyrac, willing to support his friends, to share their passion, was breathing heavily. They were his friends. And he had led them to death. Oh, he had definitely failed.

Joly sighed. Courfeyrac looked at his friends crying.

"It was my honor to be with you in this fight messieurs", he said. The others smiled nodding. And then the gunshots erased their smiles and the three of four were now lying on the floor, the blood gushing out of their wounds. Combeferre looked up. His voice came out soft but weak, as the voice of a dying young man.

"Enjolras..."

His friend's eyes, who was still standing on his feet, met his. And then he saw it. He was crying. Enjolras, the chief, the brave young man, the marble lover of liberty, he was actually crying. His lips were moving but no words could come out of his mouth. His breath was cut.

"Forgive me", he finally managed to say, but he didn't even heard his voice. And he waited for Combeferre to speak, to forgive him for being responsible for all those lost lives. Forgiveness could give him a little more courage, so he could at least die in peace, without the guilt of loss haunting him even after his death. It was his redemption.

Combeferre said nothing. He only moved his lips, staring at him with confidence and love. But he said nothing. He wouldn't say anything ever again. He remained still and his eyes were not filled with emotions anymore. They were empty. Just like Enjolras's soul. Empty.

Then it was when sorrow overwhelmed him. And he felt the death of his friends hurt way more than his wound, the feelings of guilt were devouring him. He couldn't stand the pain. He was strong, stronger than he could ever imagine. He did everything for Patria. For France. But he hadn't considered it all. Not as much as he should have. He couldn't help it, not this time. He made a few steps but didn't feel his legs anymore. He sobbed, then fainted in the middle of the room and remained there, surrounded by the blood of his friends, those young revolutionaries who were killed by their own dreams.

The guardsmen went up and saw the bodies lying on the floor. They supposed everyone was dead. And, for good or bad, they didn't see anything else in the whole room to draw their attention. They left.

The sun was slowly rising, spreading the light through the sky. The light that dozens of young men didn't long to see, the light of tomorrow. Their souls were now climbing in heaven, singing the song that couldn't be heard anymore. The streets were deserted, no one dared to get out. The silence was mourning instead of them.

A ray of light caressed Enjolras's cheek, who was unconscious for about two hours. He opened his eyes and felt incapable of moving for a couple of seconds. His whole body was aching. He took a deep breath and tried to get on his feet. He made a few steps staggering. His wounded arm had almost paralyzed. He stared at the dead bodies on the floor and then the memories hit him like a thunderstorm and the same feelings as two hours ago overwhelmed him. But he didn't faint this time. He was doomed to suffer all those deaths, knowing that it was his fault.

He went downstairs and got out of the café. The sight caused him shivers everywhere. Dead bodies all over the place, bodies of his friends. He spotted Jehan a few meters away from him. He was still smiling. He was resting in peace now. He was lucky. Everyone around him was lucky, luckier than he was. Why couldn't he be one of them?

He turned his head up to the sky, his eyes red and filled with tears. He swallowed.

"Forgive me", he whispered. "Please".

He got no response. He clenched his fists in an attempt to stay calm.

"Will you forgive me?", he repeated louder with a trembling voice. The dead silence was killing him inside. He was sinking in the sea of his own desperation and he was hearing the voices in his head repeating the same four words: "It's your fault". He was breathing heavily.

"Why aren't you answering?", he shouted one last time, waiting in vain for a response and then his voice cracked. He left an agonizing cry, enough to express his despair and make the situation more depressing, and he threw away a broken chair. He was trembling, he hated himself and no one could help him. He would die, but it would be a harrowing death. He was alone.

The crackling of the wooden stairs and the sound of footsteps on the floor broke the silence. Enjolras heard nothing, lost in his thoughts and slowly falling in depression. He sat on the wrecks of the barricade and hid his face in his hands. Someone appeared at the door and stood still. His breath was suddenly cut and few seconds later he called the name of the man he was hoping to see.

"Enjolras...".

At the sound of his name Enjolras turned slowly his head, his heart missing a beat. Someone had survived. He thought that was impossible. The guardsmen killed them all.

And yet, there he was, standing at the doorstep and smiling at him hopefully. The man he never actually trusted, but considered a friend of his. He stood still, and his once angelic figure was now miserable and covered in blood.

"Grantaire...", he mumbled, waiting for the man to look at him with hate and disappointment. He deserved that. He deserved to be hated. He ruined everything.

"You are alive!", Grantaire exclaimed and made a few steps towards him, but Enjolras stood up and fended off, as like he was scared. And he was. He was scared of Grantaire's compassion and love, he was persuaded he didn't deserve them after what he had done. He couldn't consider himself to be still loved.

Grantaire understood. He wasn't an expert at people's feelings, but this time he understood. And sighed, waiting for Enjolras to speak. His friend's expression changed from scared to serious and regretfull. He showed around with his hand.

"Look what I have done, Grantaire...", he cried. "That's all my fault!".

Grantaire shook his head negatively and approached him. He saw a different Enjolras, a man he had never seen. A man drowning into misery, blaming himself for this situation. He wanted to help.

"Enjolras", he said softly and touched his friend's arm, taking a deep breath. "You know as well as I and all our dearest friends up there who are now looking at you that... That's not actually your fault."

His words, spoken with determination, hit Enjolras like bullets. But this time the wounds didn't hurt. It felt like they were the bullets of forgiveness which could finally erase his guilt. He looked at Grantaire with tears coming down his face. For a moment he thought he saw an angel, who was bringing this message from all his friends to release him from the fetters of despair. His eyes met Grantaire's, eyes filled with confidence, the eyes of an angel. This man who had never shown him anything else but cynicism and irony, had helped him see the truth and he was now the only one he had. And he thanked God for that. He sighed without saying anything. Grantaire waited anxiously, he wanted Enjolras to speak or at least to do something. And he did. He burst into a redemptive cry like a little child. Grantaire smiled. He smiled and hugged him tightly, happy that his friend could finally show his feelings. He knew it was unusual for Enjolras, not to say unthinkable. He seemed always cold like a marble statue. But he was not one.

"I miss them Grantaire", he said sobbing. Grantaire nodded.

"Me too", he said. "I didn't even told them a proper goodbye", and deep inside he was feeling guilty for that, but he kept it for himself. His shirt was wet from Enjolras's tears. The sun was now up in the sky.

Suddenly he took a look around and a thought crossed his mind.

"Enjolras...", he continued, "I've seen all the dead bodies and I've counted them all...", he snorted. Enjolras looked at him with a confused expression.

"And?"

"I just noticed something..."

Enjolras waited. Grantaire crossed his arms on his chest and chuckled.

"Where is Marius?"