"Fall back or I'll blow the barricade!"
Everything happened quickly. Everyone froze. Marius's voice was heard from the other side of the Musain. However, this didn't stop the guardsmen at the smaller barricade who continued the attack. Students and soldiers were laying on the pavement, bleeding or already dead. The blood was creating ponds. Jehan looked around him terrified, breathing heavily. Bahorel was laying dead some meters away from him. He shook his head. They were fighting for the people, for equality, for fraternity. But not like that. Oh, God, that was wrong, that was completely wrong.
He heard a familiar voice screaming his name and he turned his head abruptly to see Feuilly running straight to his side.
"Watch out!", he screamed again and then a bullet hit his body and left him on the pavement, bleeding and groaning in pain. Jehan didn't manage to reach him. Something hit him on the head and stunned him unconscious, only feeling someone pulling him back violently. Darkness fell.
The soldiers disappeared immediately after seeing Marius. Enjolras ran his hand through his hair, his heart beating fast and looked around him. The dead were few, some students were injured. But most of them were smiling. They had repelled the first attack.
"Who's the leader here?"
Marius approached him, his look abstracted, seemed empty. He stared at him for some seconds and then put his hand on his shoulder, his lips curving a short smile.
"You are the leader now."
The injured were taken to the kitchen of the café. Combeferre and Joly went to the other side of the Musain to check for any injuries. The first thing they saw was Bahorel laying on the pavement. Joly touched his pulse. His friend's hand was cold. He turned to Combeferre disappointed and shook his head. Combeferre frowned and fended off, his head bowed, searching for the others. His heart skipped a beat. Something was missing. He turned to Joly, his eyes wide open.
"Where's Jehan?"
Joly bit his lip and looked around, but he didn't found anything either. He swallowed worried.
"Combeferre..."
The young man turned his head at the hoarse and weak voice calling his name. Feuilly. He spotted his friend at the corner of the barricade, his head leaned on the wall, his shirt red from the blood. They ran beside him. Joly kneeled and put a white cloth on the wound on his rib.
"Keep pressing on the wound", he said and searched for bandages in the basket he had took from the café. Feuilly groaned as he pressed on the wound and took a deep breath. Combeferre squeezed his trembling hand.
"You'll be alright."
Feuilly snorted and closed his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the pain. He swallowed and then the sight of Jehan falling unconscious crossed his mind, making him open his eyes and look intensely at Combeferre.
"They took him...", he stuttered. "They took Jehan."
Joly stopped moving and stared at him, his eyes wide open. Combeferre breathed shakily. The concern was painted on his face. Joly sighed.
"I'll take him in the café", he said as he enfolded a bandage around his friend's body. "Go tell Enjolras."
Combeferre nodded and stood up without losing any time. He smiled encouragingly at Feuilly and fended off them running.
Enjolras was sitting at the top of the barricade, watching at the other side. Silence had fallen, which was more concerning than reassuring. He breathed shakily and glared at Marius sitting across him. He didn't seem to understand what was going on. He was physically there, but his thoughts were flying. His lips curved slightly.
"Enjolras..."
He turned his head to see Combeferre standing still and looking at him intensely. His expression didn't imply anything good. He descended the barricade and went beside him doubtful. Combeferre snorted.
"They have Prouvaire", he said in a low voice. Enjolras didn't speak. He stared at his friend for some seconds pensively. His words were repeated in his mind, yet his thoughts were blurry. He sighed.
"What about the others?"
"Bahorel is dead... Feuilly was shot, Joly is taking care of him."
He shook his head and snorted, trying to concentrate. His look suddenly flew to Javert tied at the corner. He bit his lip.
"We will give them the nark. Jehan's life is more important."
Jehan moaned softly as he blinked his eyes open. His head was aching, his vision was still blurry. He tried to move but he realized his hands were bound behind his back. He looked around him and then froze, his heart skipping a beat. The guardsmen turned at him.
"He's awake."
A soldier pulled him up violently and pushed him ahead. He didn't manage to make any more steps as another soldier dragged him in the middle of the road and made him kneel. Jehan pushed his hand abruptly and snorted as the soldier tightened his grip. He should be feeling terrified. But he was not. It was not terror that was growing in him. It was rage, and passion, and an irrational hope. A hope for the future. It was a flame, a flame that was growing lighter and lighter. The future was near, oh, he could see it. He could see peace, love, happiness, progress. A flame seemed to sparkle in his eyes.
He would die. But those values were definitely worth dying for.
Courfeyrac was murmuring a song and cleaning his rifle when he heard voices from the other side. He raised his head but froze in terror at the sight.
"Oh my God...", he stuttered, his eyes fixed in the middle of the street. Jehan was waiting, his eyes covered with a cloth and his head bowed. He swallowed.
"Enjolras..."
His friend turned his head and saw the terrified expression on his face. He heard Combeferre talking behind him.
"I'll tie a white cloth to my carbine and get out..."
He stopped when Enjolras nodded with his hand and climbed quickly the barricade. His heart missed a beat.
"Jehan..."
The cocking of the rifles broke the silence. Jehan's lips curved a short smile. His eyes were covered. Yet, he saw more than he did when they were not. He saw valleys full of flowers, he saw again the sheets with the doodled edges where he wrote his poems, he saw a world full of joy. Everything was so beautiful for him, even the smallest detail always impressed him, the fluttering of the birds, the movement of the clouds. He remembered his mother. She was always protecting him, she wanted her boy to be soft and kind. He had promised he'd return. She would be waiting for him.
His heart was beating fast, his hands were sweating. Death was close, yet he was unafraid. It would be a world where everything would be beautiful, not only the details, because there wasn't such thing as poverty or sadness. That was the world he wanted to live in, even if he was dead. He felt his whole body burning with rage, with passion. He was ready, and his voice came out of his mouth imperious, loud and decisive, his words being like stabs at his friends' hearts who heard every single one of his last lines.
"Fools! You think you can stop it! No one can! Revolution is like a flower. It will wilt only if they stop watering it. But no one will ever stop! Blood is the water of revolution! And we may die, but our blood will make this flower grow!..."
A soldier approached and punched him in the face. Courfeyrac made to stand up with a gasp, tears filling his eyes. Enjolras's hand on his chest stopped him. Jehan licked his lip. So, that was what blood tasted like. It seemed sweet to him. He grinned bitterly and then he took a deep breath, letting the words come out at the top of his voice which sounded hoarse, yet stable and intrepid.
"Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!"
The gunshots sounded like a storm in their ears. The bullets hit his body and he fell on the pavement, bleeding and choking on his own blood. He heard Courfeyrac screaming his name. He smiled slightly. He was right, death wasn't that bad at all. Oh, it was beautiful. The world around him went blurry and his eyes were closed. His smile hadn't faded. He was sleeping.
Courfeyrac hid his face in his hands, sobbing. Enjolras bit his lip, a tear coming down his marble cheek and turned to Combeferre who was still holding Javert. His friend bowed his head. Joly, who had been watching from the window the whole time, swallowed and looked at Feuilly. The young man couldn't decide which hurt more, his wound or his friend's death. He held back a sob.
That was their warning.
They say that after the rebellion of 1832, there was one grave among all the others which was always full of flowers that never wilted, not even in winter. No one had planted them. Some people thought it was the spirit of the man buried there. Maybe they were right. Maybe that was just another people's attempt to explain the inexplicable. No one could ever know.
It was the grave of Jean Prouvaire.