Jehan looked around with a panicked glance. He suddenly realised that he was on the wrong side of the barricade. Around him were the men of the national guard, standing above him with their rifles ready. He struggled to get up, wincing when he stood on his ankle. He must have sprained it when he fell from the barricade.
The National Guard surrounded him, looking down at him, their faces taunting him without saying a word. He knew that he had killed their friends, it was only fair that they killed him. That was what he wanted to be able to think, he wanted to face death bravely, unflinching. Or stare death in the eyes, righteous and brave. He wished that he could swear at them, in languages that they probably hadn't even heard of. He wished that he could spit in their faces and mock them without trying. He even partially wished that he had bad luck and was already dead. Jehan wished that he could show them the logic of returning him to his side of the barricade. He knew it would have been better if he could heal them, they might give him a better chance of survival. But he couldn't be anyone but him.
They pulled him to his feet and he used his rifle to rest his weight on. He knew that they could swap him as a prisoner for the spy Javert, he just needed to wait until his friends noticed he was missing. He knew that Bahorel, the one most likely to notice him missing, was dead so he had to wait for the others.
Jehan felt tears prick his eyes as he thought of his friend Bahorel and the soldiers laughed at him for it.
"What's the matter pretty boy?" they asked, mocking.
He stood against a wall, trying to remain standing. One of the soldiers tried to hand him a blindfold but he tossed it to the ground, trying to be brave. The soldiers prepared to shoot but then a voice cried out.
"Stop!"
Jehan recognised the voice as Combeferre's and for one moment of genuine peace he believed that he would survive. He felt a piercing pain in his stomach and realised that one of the trigger happy soldiers had shot him. He noticed Combeferre debating with the soldiers and the they came to an agreement. One of the soldiers grabbed Jehan by the shoulder and buttoned his jacket, so as to conceal the bullet wound. Jehan stumbled over the barricade and tipped into Combeferre's arms. Jehan winced, the fall aggravating his wound. Combeferre glanced down at the blood that was already staining through Jehan's jacket.
"You said that you hadn't touched him!" Combeferre cried out, enraged.
The men at the other side of the barricade laughed. "I hope you don't believe that the spy Javert is going to be returned."
Jehan smiled as Combeferre bundled him into his arms, the waify poet weighed hardly a thing. When Combeferre realised how fatal the wound was he knew that even if he and Joly both assisted it could hardly help.
"It's okay C-Combeferre," Jehan said shaking. "Bahorel said that he'd wait for me."
It was true, to some extent because, for all Jehan knew, Bahorel was right beside his side, holding onto his hand.
"B-Bahorel said hell would boil over before he left without me," Jehan smiled slightly.
The rest of Les Amis gathered around, mournful expressions plastering their faces. They kneeled around Jehan, save for one spot where Bahorel was apparently waiting. They looked up in disgust when Grantaire left the circle but Jehan seemed to not notice. Grantaire returned, a small bunch of weed flowers in his hands. They remembered how frustratedly Jehan had defended the weed, claiming that weeds were survivors.
"I'm sorry Jehan, it was all I could find at short notice," Grantaire mumbled, passing the flowers down to Jehan.
Jehan smiled and coughed as he tucked the flowers behind his ear. He began shaking and shivering and the other amis knew that his time was nearly up.
"Farewell, mes amis," he whispered and the poet breathed his last.
Bahorel took his hand and Jehan tucked a flower behind Bahorel's ear. They walked away to a better place at last.
At last the fighter and the poet were reunited.