AN: This is a short oneshot in honor of Barricade Day, 2011. There are probably all sorts of mistakes, as I wrote it today because I didn't want to wait until next year to put my two bits in. Anyway, this is my first Les Miserables fanfic, and it's my take on Monsieur Mabeuf at the barricades. I've borrowed a bit from Victor Hugo's dialogue. Read, review, and enjoy.

Dear M. Plutarch,

I had a boy deliver this note to you in the possibility that I will not be back. Sell the bookshelf for whatever you can receive from it. (The glass should fetch 50 francs.) Please sell it immediately if you are still in need of a doctor. If I am not back in two days, do whatever you might with my property, for I have no living relatives.

Please accept my sincerest apologies that I cannot provide you with better compensation than these possessions. You have done far more than what was required of your job. May God be with you.

Monsieur Mabeuf walked briskly on the morning of 5 June, 1832, chastising himself for forgetting to sign the note. It completely evaded him in his agitation that Mother Plutarch was his only house-companion which could confirm the contents of the letter had been his words. Now he marched with a legion of young men in the street. Monsieur Mabeuf had not walked for such a distance for years, and it was rather difficult for him. Monsieur Marius' friend, Monsieur Courfeyrac, had advised him to leave, but he was unsuccessful in persuading the old man. Now the old man walked, seemingly unconscious, paying attention to nothing and nobody. What had piqued his attention was Courfeyrac's brief conversation with a face he easily recognized, a face now among them, causing more contemplation.

It was to this Republic Mabeuf wished to give his life now. He'd been rather apolitical for much of his life. Even now he didn't readily know why he was here. He supposed the female goblin truly led him, the one who had watered his plants a while ago. While he was making his way to the barricades already, sore from the salts of his aching fate, the tall, slender girl had woven among the city underworld to the same location; how strange that he was following her instead of the other way around! There were hundreds of those goblins in Paris they'd already passed, as it turned out, whom he now recognized not to be goblins at all, but the class of the unfortunate, the class of the miserable. Mabeuf felt that he trailed this entire caste now rather than just this stranger, swept to the feet of the drums of warfare.

When the girl had disappeared, so had his concentration. Everything started off in a basement, a barricade was built, cartridges dispersed, until one by one they left him there. Several hours passed at the barricades above that he was not a part of. As the time drew out and the sun moved in the sky, each sound instilled in him more dread and more tremors in the solitude. He murmured to himself. The only other inhabitant, said to be a spy, did not speak. It was indeed something terrible these boys had gotten themselves into here, and the shock didn't get any better.

His heart fluttered like bird's wings with this anxiety, and the thunder of anticipation within him increased as muskets greeted the ears of every man at the barricade. The place smelled so badly of blood that with a little imagination, the most sober of men could see red droplets falling from the sky in the rain that coated everything. The taste brought upon by strength, in turn, caused bile in all but the strongest of men, and all but the weakest to swallow it. The barricade itself was no sight of exquisiteness, a work of pace rather than art. Few men would willingly die here. No sign of beauty shone through this torrid destiny of mankind.

"Who is there here who has courage?" A song cut through the air in the midst of this drudge. "Who replants the flag on the barricade?" Mabeuf stared, blinded by this young speaker of no more than seventeen years, with a full head of golden hair. The red of the barricades didn't dare touch this ethereal brow or even near it, this respective halo of sorts, and splendor went everywhere his voice, his grace, his body, did. He was puzzled by this mirage. Did all barricades have this sublime delirium in the last hours, the best hours, of their lives?

"No volunteers!" The vision repeated.

Mabeuf found, at the silence, no ready takers, his initial suspicion. Surely it was not too long before the leader could take it upon himself, if his pedestal were so low as to touch the cries of the people; if it were so close to the ground, he would step off and become that symbol? Now he showed hesitance, as any brave man still might at certain death. He, Mabeuf, would like to think so, but what, then, of the chief's death? The mirage would be ripped away—from all of them.

The octogenarian, who had felt only dull pains for the last few years, was professedly horrified. None of these men deserved to rot amongst themselves, and he did not want to live to see this chief dead or dishonored. What was to be done? Quick and rash contemplation bought half an idea, one that had been a hypothesis since he had had to sell his last book to fetch a nurse for Mother Plutarch.

Only now did they notice his presence. He himself barely remembered leaving the basement of that wine shop. As memory is precious especially to those who are old, he had to remind himself sternly that that was of no importance.

Monsieur Mabeuf walked silently toward that flag, stumbling a little, and, looking quietly down, snatching the flag with a little more force than either anticipated. Murmurs erupted from the young partisans. This man, to the young blonde's horrified scrutiny, was short and slim with a shock of short white hair, certainly not fit for the barricades. He walked stiffly, but there were no other indicators of his age.

With a little care, but still slipping somewhat, the old man ignored dampness in his eyes, stiffening further his falling limbs, and taking care to allow the flag up first, for an opportunity for him to wave it. He pulled the three-cornered hat further over his head grimly. All was said; all was done. He didn't speak and willed the tremor from his fingers as his last dying wish, then removed the thin film of the flag, naked to oncoming bullets. The flag wrapped around a few times in the mild wind, slipping just once, but the boys watched it wave back and forth like a pendulum in a clock. Once, twice, thrice, the flag waved, then again. Those standing watched; those wounded smiled. Courfeyrac shouted. The blonde stood alone.

The guns never stopped firing, but they might as well have. The old man's eyes swam as Courfeyrac's shouts hit his ears. His own shouts tore from his lips. "Vive la revolution! Vive la republique! Fraternity! Equality! And death!" His foot seemed to be shot, and now he was keeping two different tallies:

Five times it waved;

Twice was he shot.

Six times it waved.

Three bullets, then four…

Mabeuf let out a soft groan and stumbled down the barricade with four bright red holes in him shining like molten buttons. His hat on impact spun off his head and soared over the barricade.

There was a part of a seventh turn of the flag; everyone noticed except for Mabeuf. The chief gravely spoke of that act to epitomize the group's conduct here. "This is the example the old give to the young," he said. His name was revealed by one of the group to be Enjolras.

Words such as "august" and "magnificent" hit the dying man's ears, such words that had never occurred to him previously. He smiled as he heard the tail end of Enjolras' speech. Even now no such ideas came to him; he neither agreed nor disagreed with Enjolras. His last thoughts lay with botany, books, and happiness.

"…let every one defend this old man dead as he would defend his father living, and let his presence among us make the barricade impregnable!"

Afraid to interrupt, finally, a voice broke out among the group, meekly, and pointed with a tremor to the body crushed at their feet, who had undergone a sudden transformation. The blood flowing around him made him somehow indistinguishable. The hair couldn't have been told; it was now very, very red, something that oddly befitted the corpse once upon a time. He looked now not as old as he had been, even though Enjolras spoke of what he as an elder had given to the young. Certain age brought bravery, but it also brought cynicism. On his features was written the spirit of youth. The students had not seen it of him this morning; Courfeyrac had not seen it of him ever. (Courfeyrac pointed out, at approximately this time, that Citizen Mabeuf had no political commitments; he was simply an old man who used to keep a church and found a companion in Marius. His motivations for being present were forever a mystery.)

His eyes were open, and his cheeks were full with a smile they never had seen. His homely old age was still painfully apparent, but the beauty of circumstance now touched his gentle features. His discharge was complete.