For anyone who's read both the Brick and Balzac's Lost Illusions (anyone? please?), the parallels between the Amis and the Brotherhood should be painfully obvious. Both are groups of nine young men in 1820s/1830s Paris who are engaged in a revolt against society due to their utter devotion to an ideal. A tenth joins them but leaves because he is unable to fully accept their principles. One is described as looking like Apollo.

The Brotherhood, however, is a literary group, and their politics vary as much as do the…characters…of the Amis. One, however, would be at home with our Barricade Boys. Michel Chrestien is "a republican of broad views, who dreamed of a reconstructed Europe, and who in 1830 counted for much in the moral movement of the Saint-Simonians." There is, within the character of Chrestien, something of Enjolras, something of Combeferre, something of Jehan, something of Feuilly, and something of Bahorel. What's more, he dies in the 1832 Lamarque uprising.

The only catch: he gets killed fighting for the other side.

Michel Chrestien "died, a simple soldier in the cloister of Saint-Merri. The ball of a shopkeeper sent out of life one of the noblest creatures that ever trod the soil of France."

Transfer him to the Chanvrerie barricade, put him in the Hugo-verse, and you've got quite a premise for a fic.

Chrestien is Balzac's. The rest are Hugo's. The two should've been combined long before now. The authors were friends, so I doubt they'd mind sharing.

Wreckage. Cannon smoke. Moans. Combeferre stumbled through shadowy wreckage on the fringes of the barricade, nervously feeling the barrel of the pistol in his shaking hand. Mere hours to live, and yet duty called.

"Is there anyone alive?" he called out, trying not to look too closely at the bodies littering the street. "I can…help you, perhaps. We have a hospital of sorts. Speak up if you don't want to be left here."

In the murk, a figure in a National Guard's uniform groaned and made a pitiful effort to rise. Combeferre jumped and leveled his weapon at the man's head. "On your honor, you surrender to us? You will not try to attack anyone?"

"Yes," the Guardsman rasped. "…help me."

Combeferre lowered his weapon, walked over to the man, and almost gratefully fell to his knees at his side. "Where?"

"Chest."

He gently turned the Guardsman onto his back. First: the wound. As the man had indicated, a ball had hit him square in the rib cage. "Breathe," he commanded, laying his ear beside the injury. A terrible, fluid-filled gurgle rumbled deep within the lungs. Combeferre was too tired to feel regret. Only exhaustion. Envy, almost, for the man's work was done.

Next: the face. He was about a decade older than the students manning the barricade. The man's look was ashen, but gentle by nature. Surprisingly, there was no trace of hatred or resentment in his already-clouding eyes. There was no hope for his survival. Just another tragedy.

"Friend, there is nothing any mortal can do to save you." No reaction. "The barricade will fall, but it may yet be hours. Even if the Guard retrieves you, you are as doomed as I am." He cocked the pistol. "Would you like me to end your suffering now? A quick prayer, and you can be out of this hell."

"No."

Combeferre closed his eyes in frustrated anguish. "Then I must go. I have the living to attend to."

As he began to rise, the man's hand shot out and clamped onto his shirtsleeve. "Take me with you. Put me with...your dead."

"What?"

"I seem to have found myself on the wrong side of the barricade."

"Who are you?"

"Have you heard…Michel Chrestien?"

"Chrestien, the European federalist? The Saint-Simonian of 1830?"

Chrestien nodded and smiled weakly. "Good."

"Enjolras (our leader, that is) speaks of you with reverence! He adores your ideas. What was it he said to us? Ah, 'We are advancing toward the union of peoples,' and then, 'Europe will have her Amphictyons.' I've read some of your works; we were trying to find you! How did you end up fighting against us?"

"Even republicans must eat. I care not about my work, as long as it leaves my mind free to wander. A man…should experience all walks of life, so I became a soldier. And you new generation…I fear you are too wild for me."

"I fear we are too wild for ourselves. How else would we end up here?"

Chrestien laughed weakly, a rattle that burst into a bloody cough. Combeferre placed a hand behind Chrestien's head, blood-crusted fingers on matted hair, raising it slightly so that he would not choke on the fluids. "How else indeed," Chrestien replied once he could speak again. "I think…kindred spirits. You. Me."

Combeferre nodded solemnly, tenderly. "I suspect so, too. But what can I do for you, brother? Anything at all, I…"

"Let my body join my spirit among your ranks."

"Moving you will only kill you faster. Are you sure? Your spirit is already with us."

"Do it."

"On three, then. One…two…"

On three, Combeferre tugged Chrestien upward. Chrestien, with a heroic effort, flung himself forward across Combeferre's shoulder. They began to plod slowly, slowly back through the battleground.

Step. Step. Combeferre's legs, already trembling with fatigue, threatened to give out under Chrestien's weight. Before long, he was not sure if the grunts of pain were the federalist's or his own.

Joly approached the two men as they neared the café. The side of his head was covered in blood. "Where have you been? Can I help?"

"Just help me set him inside."

"A guardsman?"

"A comrade. Our brother."

Joly shrugged, no longer fazed by anything. "Alright, then." As he began to take some of Chrestien's weight, a command sounded on the other side of the barricade. A stampede of unseen boots rumbled towards them as they awkwardly tried to run to some kind of shelter. The first soldier to appear over the summit immediately felled Joly. Chrestien fell to the ground with a thud. Combeferre cried out and quickly returned the shot, lodging a ball in the soldier's stomach. He fell backward over the summit and disappeared.

Trying to ignore Joly's final twitchings, Joly's empty stare, the blood gushing from Joly's throat, Combeferre bent once again over Chrestien, trying to hear him over the growing din. "Throw away…pistol," Chrestien panted. "If they are still sane…might not kill you. Medic. Prison, maybe."

"What, dishonor myself and abandon my friends so that I could rot in a cell? Ha! Would you do it?"

Chrestien slowly shook his head, the ghost of a rueful smile on his lips.

"Exactly. I swore to get you to safety, and so I will. One more try."

"Defend yourself."

"What difference does it make?" They don't deserve to die, he thought, and by defending myself, I will only be killing them. Let's make it a good end, since the end is so near.

As he was lifting Chrestien, a guardsman stopped in front of them. "You, what are you doing to that soldier?"

"I am honoring a great and noble man."

"Put him down, you monster! We've heard what you do to our dead!"

Combeferre looked questioningly back at the guard. He looked panicked, anguished, and far too young. "What?"

"You mutilate them! And…and…"

The guard screamed heart-wrenchingly and thrust his bayonet forward. Chrestien, with the last of his strength, launched himself upward and caught the blow between his shoulders. "Europe," he murmured, and died.

Utterly dumbstruck, Combeferre and the guard both stared at Chrestien. It was a few seconds before a cannon's fire jerked them both out of their shock. They stared at each other, and Combeferre was so engrossed by the tears coursing down the guard's face that he hardly noticed the three savage bayonet thrusts that rapidly pierced his chest. He fell next to Chrestien, and their blood mixed together on the cobblestones.

Not my absolute best, perhaps, but I needed to do it. Now, go forth and read some real literature. If nothing else, maybe I'll inspire someone else to read Lost Illusions. It's not Hugo, but it's pretty dang amazing anyway.