Enjolras stood at the top of the barricades, one foot braced on what might have once been the side of a cart. He bent to take another cartidge from the pile at his feet, and reloaded his musket, then fired into the smoke before him once again. He couldn't say how many times he had repeated this action; bend, load, fire, bend, load, fire. Shooting at any furtive movement, any sound.

The gunfire around him had lessened as he had stood there, but he had not heard it. At one point, a body had collapsed against him, throwing him off balance, but he had thrown it aside, not perceiving which of his friends stared at him in unseeing sorrow. His foreheard had been pierced by some piece of debris thrown up by a stray ball, filling his eyes with blood, but it had not mattered to him. Smoke and exhaustion had blinded him long before.

He reached down for another cartridge, but all that met his searching hand was bare wood. He placed his gun gently before his feet and stood as tall as he could, ignoring the pain shooting through his body. He filled his lungs and gave a final cry;

"J'ai combattu pour la Patrie, j'ai tué pour la Patrie, maintenant je meurs pour la Patrie!"

If any had been there to see him, they would have been moved to pity for this tarnished angel, the last of his race. He now resembled not so much a glowing Apollo, but a disfigured Hephaestus. His gold had been sullied by a coating of blood and ash, and his torn coat billowed around him like dark flames. Even his stance was that of Hephaestus, for he stood hunched over, unable to straighten his back fully. He stood there, squinting into the dissipating smoke, searching for that final merciful ball.

It never came. He stood, waiting, for an eternity, then, when his strength finally failed him, he crumbled to his hands and knees, the tears which streamed down his face clearing the grime from before his eyes. He dragged himself down from the barricade, falling as the defences crumbled beneath him, and cutting himself on broken glass.

"J'suis ici!" he cried, as he came to each uniformed body. "I have fought for my country, and now I am ready to die for my country. Now I must die for my country!"

He searched for that one final ball, going to every body and repeating his pleas. As he turned over the final corpse, he felt a shadow fall over him. He raised his head and gazed calmly into the barrel of a pistol.

"Strike now, o angel of death. The blood of my friends has been shed to nourish France, as mine now must be."

All he received for this was a kick to the ribs. "Get up, now. You've had your moment of glory. Come quietly, and we'll have you in the hands of the law in no time."

Enjolras murmured, "Donc, if that's the way it must be...," and pushed himself wearily to his knees, then raised his eyes to the soldier. "My legs have no strength left. I will need your hand."

The soldier snorted his disgust at the filthy wretch kneeling before him, but reached down to jerk Enjolras to his feet.

As Enjolras was pulled upwards, he swung his arm around to strike at the soldier with a sharp shard of rock he had found on the broken pavement. "I will not be subject to your laws!"

The soldier stepped back in alarm and pulled the trigger of his pistol.

Enjolras felt the bullet pierce his chest and smiled, joy bringing a glow to his face once more as he sunk to the ground, blood cascading into the earth.

"Enfin, mon sang est à la France!"