Wow. How do I even begin on this? Robespierre, my plot bunny, sort of awkwardly thrust this into my hands and I turned it into this. It's...depressing, to say the least, but I hope you'll agree that the world needs more Jehan fics. So I give you this. Please, do leave a review, it would mean a lot to me.

-Marseillaise

Cold, unfeeling hands tie the blindfold around Prouvaire and he knows in his heart that this is the end. He doesn't resist, because that won't do anything. Instead, he allows his hands to be tied cruelly tight behind his back, not a sound escaping his lips.

A soldier approaches on either side of him, each grabbing an arm. Such as this, they march him to a place between the barricade and the ranks of the National Guard. He stumbles blindly along, but the soldiers do not allow him to fall. Their hands grip his upper arms tightly, and somehow the touch of another living being, even one who is about to kill him, is comforting, because Jehan Prouvaire doesn't want to die alone. He will- of course he will, and he will die well, but although he went along with the revolution perfectly aware of what might be the result, he wants to die among his compatriots, among his friends. Instead, he is to be shot, and his very death used to demoralize the ones he wishes to fight alongside. He holds his blindfolded head high as he is marched to his death.

It's Courfeyrac who sees him. "They have Prouvaire!" he shouts frantically, scrambling down from his post on watch. He thinks only of his friend, disregarding the painful slide as he missteps.

Combeferre hears the centre, and turns to Enjolras. The guide and the leader realise quickly that possibly, they can exchange hostages. Combeferre fumbles and yanks out of his waistcoat a white handkerchief that they can use for a flag.

The attention of the entire barricade has been diverted now, and anxiously they watch as Combeferre knots his handkerchief shakingly onto the tip of a musket.

The guide's hands are sweaty, his breathing faster than normal as he affixes their makeshift flag of truce. He has always been the rational one, the one who can quell arguments and see through to the calm even in the darkest storm or argument.

But there has never been anything so serious. The guide refuses to believe that calm, cold voice inside him that says what he will deny until it is too late, the voice that says there is nothing he can do. Because Combeferre cannot stand being useless. He has always been there to comfort, to care, and to guide. He didn't like violence, he simply believed it the only way to achieve the future. Combeferre liked to know things, liked to be certian. So as shaking fingers tied the handkerchief around his gun, Combeferre felt the very first inkling of doubt seep its way into his mind.

Enjolras waited impatiently for Combeferre to finish their truce flag. As the leader, he felt responsible for each of his friends, and not only that, but he knew that any of their deaths would haunt him. He had already done the unthinkable, murdered an innocent, the artillery officer who was no older than him and certianly just as inexperienced. And he had killed Le Cabauc simply as an example. Enjolras knew that he, himself would not leave the barricade alive, but he could try with all that he was so that his friends could.

And that was when the drums sounded. It was all extremely official sounding, and Jehan thought to himself that they were simply humanizing an inhuman event. They were taking the cold-blooded murder of youth and turning it into a ceremony of death.

The drums sounded like a beat, low and steady and not too fast. Jehan felt that in these, his final moments on earth, he should remember. Remeber the times of happiness. And something came floating through to him. An act of defiance. A song.

As the drums came to a halt, Jehan sang in a thin, clear voice that was gently picked up by the wind and carried to the waiting ears of those who cared about him.

Allons, enfants de la Patrie, (arise, children of Patria)
La jour de gloire est arrivé (the day of glory has arrived)
Contre nous de la tyrannie, (against us is tyranny)
L'étendard sanglant est levé...(and they have raised the bloody flag...)

The officer looked at the small, fragile looking young man that sang defiantly at the face of Death. He felt sorrowful, for it seemed truly a sin to extinguish such a flame. He bowed his head. The figure, bound and blinded, was hardly more than a boy. He swallowed hard and thought, forgive me. Then he raised his arm. "Aim!"

Jehan stopped the song at the sound of the officer's voice. Without thinking, he uttered words that he hoped would serve to inspire his companions, his compatriots, his friends. "Vive la France ! Vive l'avenir !" he cried wildly.

Closing his eyes, the army officer whispered, "fire." Nothing happened. Opening them again, he snapped loudly and with wild abandon, "fire!"

The answering reports rang out, and through the echoes, he heard the unmistakeable thud. The street was silent for perhaps five seconds, as if out of respect for the body that undoubtedly now lay there in a pool of scarlet.

When the smoke and haze cleared enough for the corpse to be distinguished, the barricade seemed to mourn as one.

Enjolras dropped his gaze, feeling the weight of Jehan's death wash over him in agony. The youngest of the group, the flower, the boy that radiated love and who undoubtedly had someone who had stayed up by candlelight, hoping and praying for his safe return. Perhaps it was a mother, a father, a lover, or any number of the souls whose lives the poet had caressed. Enjolras sank to the ground as if feeling the weight of it all come crashing down on his shoulders and pinning him to the ground, not even allowing him to stand amongst his brothers he had doomed to die.

Combeferre was staring at the lifeless young man in shock, the makeshift truce flag still clutched in his grip. The guide had always sought for another option, some way to avoid violence, but this... he felt hot tears in his eyes, not bothering to blink them away. If he had been a bit faster, if they had seen his flag, if only, if only... If only it had been Combeferre instead, because Combeferre didn't have a shy young grisette who loved him as if he was the last man on earth, and Jehan did. Had. He wondered if she would find out how her lover had died, brave and alone. Would Jehan have preferred it have been Combeferre? The guide didn't have an answer.

As they sat, grieving, the most unlikely of the Amis stood up. Dully, Grantaire poured a mug of the Corinthe's finest wine and simply said, "to Jehan."

finis