Disclaimer: All character and novel rights belong to Victor Hugo, with whom I am not affiliated with in any way. I own nothing except for my own imagination.
Extinguished
He remembers Bahorel, his sharp tongue faster than wind and his fists even more so, quick to act, always moving. He never knew exactly what to do but never failed to do something. He was the first to speak, to laugh, to fight. He was the first to die.
He remembers Bossuet, bald and dismissed from the school and notoriously unlucky. He knocked things over and tripped on flat ground and walked into everything. He took and gave everything he had with a smile and a word of genuine kindness and lived a happier - and shorter - life than most of the people in Europe.
He remembers Combeferre, peering over the rim of thick lenses, the pacifist, the silent genius. He fidgeted with chess pieces and placed them on the board with perfect accuracy, calculated so that he always lost by the nearest margin. He died with a hand outstretched to aid a friend.
He remembers Joly, the hypochondriac, whose love for his friends was so great he was just as fearful for their health as he was for his own. He was a healer of the body and of the soul. He had been studying to be a doctor, and his heart ceased to beat just as he was getting another's to start back up.
He remembers Jehan, the innocent, the pure, all flowers and poetry and soft smiles and warm eyes, best liked because there was simply nothing to dislike. He was full of pretty words and light laughter, a delicate rose that only learned how to use its thorn right before its stem was snapped.
He remembers Feuilly, the people's man, whose mother was France and France alone. He was a labourer and an artist, ginger head bent over an intricately painted paper fan in the stinging, stale hours of early morning, fingers quick and diligent and precise. The people took him in and then flushed him out in waves of red.
He remembers Courfeyrac, everybody's friend, the brother in arms, the centre of their circle, moulding them close together. He held them tight to his hear and even tighter to his soul so that they each took a place there, buried deep within. It was only after they all broke into pieces, pieces, pieces that he finally fell apart.
He remembers Grantaire, bottle in his hand, alcohol on his breath, and immeasurable wisdom in his head. He laughed much and cried more because he always saw the most. There was one with a certain radiance that blinded him, and he couldn't stop looking. It was the only cause he had ever believed in. And he had given his life for it.
He remembers Enjolras, their shining leader, standing at the head of the table, addressing them all, arms raised up as if embracing his beloved Patria, the golden curls atop his head fanning out like a halo. He was a man ablaze. He was the man whose fire burned the fiercest, so hot and so strong it turned him into ashes, sculpted chin raised in everlasting defiance.
He remembers the brothers he never had: the family he hadn't known he needed.
Why are the brightest lights so easily extinguished?
AN: I was listening to Empty Chairs At Empty Tables and this happened.
I know it's very short, but I just really wanted to write it. Hopefully you had as much fun reading it as I had in writing it.
Leave a review and tell me what you think! Love, Stormy