Hey guys! So I'm writing again after a good two years hiatus! This is my own spin on what happened at the Barricade, I love Enjolras and the Barricade Boys to death (Oh my gosh excuse the pun!). I'll be updating this pretty regularly, whenever I have time! In this story, please for character references, I always picture Enjolras as Aaron Tveit, Courfeyrac as Fra Fee, Combeferre as Killian Donnelly, etc. Basically just picture them as they appeared in the 2012 musical! Please Enjoy and R&R!
It wasn't supposed to end like this. This wasn't supposed to happen. The only ones left? The brave thing to do would be to fight to the end, to refuse to yield, though any doubt to be had about the outcome of their plight was vanquished now; to stay would be in vain.
Stupidity is often mistook for bravery, and bravery often mistook for courage. It was at this present moment that a war was raging inside his head concerning these three things. Stupid to stay, or brave? The pleading words of the National Guard commander gave him pause. The man was right, he loathed to admit. Why throw their lives away? Yes, he was willing to die, for the cause, for his Patria, but what of the others? Did they truly grasp what was about to happen? No, he was sure of it. One glance at Combeferre spoke volumes. A peek at Prouvaire made his heart ache with pity - the poor gentle man was terrified, and he wasn't the only one whose fear was tangible. He was certain the soldiers on the other side of the barricade could taste it in the air.
The sound of Courfeyrac's broken sobs, the sight of his friend crouched over the pale and motionless form of little Gavroche, these made up his mind. If his friends hadn't known before, they certainly knew now.
Enjolras spoke then, his quiet voice ringing with thunder as he gazed across the determined faces gathered around him.
"Let us die, facing our foes. Make them bleed while we can –"
"Make them pay through the nose!" Combeferre joined in from where he sat consoling Courfeyrac.
"Make them pay for every man!" Courfeyrac raised his tearstained face.
"Let others rise, to take our place, until the Earth is free!" Enjolras let his words ring clear across the barricade, looking away from where the old man, the mysterious volunteer, had gently picked up Gavroche and was carrying him into the Musain. As he raised his rifle towards the Guardsmen, he knew their commander had heard him as well. The two opposing leaders locked eyes over the impromptu battlefield, and Enjolras saw the regret in the older man's eyes. The commander didn't want to carry out his given task, but both men knew that he was bound in his duty.
One second passed. Then another. One more.
"CANNONS!"commander's cry broke the tense silence, startling everyone. Enjolras caught his breath, he'd expected this, he'd known the command to attack was coming, but the cannons? He tightened his grip on his rifle – brought with him from his family's home in Marseilles – and swallowed hard. If they hadn't stood a chance before, they were doomed now.
"QUICK AS YOU CAN, COME ON!" The officer continued his shout, "LOOK LIVELY!". Enjolras wanted to call for his friends to retreat, to run, to get away. They could still escape, they had a few moments yet. But his pride prevented him from giving voice to the words bubbling in his throat.
He glanced at his friends behind him, and gave a stern nod. They gathered themselves, rifles and pistols at the ready, and took their places beside him. The ominous rumble of the massive cannons grew as the Guardsmen hauled them across the cobblestone. The uniformed men formed ranks and began to advance.
"Far right first." Marius's genteel voice, roughened by lack of sleep and preceding events, reached his ears. Enjolras adjusted his grip on his rifle and cocked the hammer into the ready. The Guardsmen were still trying to form position – it wasn't everyday they faced rebel barricades in the city streets.
"Wait for it, wait for it!" The Commander's voice could be heard as he quickly gathered his troops. Enjolras waited no longer, the guardsmen had collected themselves.
"FIRE!" His voice whipped through the air, and suddenly smoke was blooming around him as he discharged his rifle and the crack of gunfire exploded in his ears as his comrades fired their own weapons in quick succession. Through the smoke he saw several front rank guardsmen fall, and he quickly aimed for the men preparing the cannons. He cocked his rifle and squeezed the trigger, he blinked quickly as the weapon discharged, not wanting to see men fall at his hand. Yes, it was out of necessity, but that didn't make him want to do it, he shoved down feelings of disgust, before they could consume his conscience, and threw his spent rifle down behind him to be reloaded, grasping the replacement Bossuet handed up to him. As he readied and fired it, he sent up a prayer of apology. He shut his eyes at each firing of his weapon.
"They're bringing in replacements!" Marius called, his voice shaking from either fear or adrenaline, possibly both, Enjolras couldn't tell. The rumbling grew louder and he heard the National Guard commander order the second cannon to be readied as their own firearms were reloaded and handed back to them.
"FIRE!" His voice cracked, it sounded weak in his ears, it betrayed his own fear. His friends didn't appear to notice, mercifully, and they obeyed his command once more. But this time, the Guardsmen were ready for them.
"FIRE!" The officer's voice cut through the smoke, and the students were suddenly ducking under an onslaught of opposing gunfire. Enjolras heard Marius hiss with pain as a bullet grazed his shoulder. From the corner of his eye he saw Prouvaire – he couldn't get used to the sight of the soft spoken poet holding a gun – reel at the recoil of his rifle. He trained his gaze ahead to the Guardsmen once more and sucked in a breath. Shit. They'd formed perfect ranks, their short lived advantage was over. Shots exploded around them once more at the distant call of the officer.
"Take cover, Boy!" He vaguely heard the old volunteer uselessly command Marius. He didn't know why this man was so concerned with Pontmercy's safety, and at that moment, he didn't care. What he did care about was Combeferre's panicked voice from behind him – Combeferre never panicked, it wasn't his nature, he was the Guide, their voice of reason.
"There's more men! There's more men, Enjolras!" His best friend cried from the other end of the barricade, alongside Bossuet. More gunfire. More smoke, the residue from the gunpowder stung his eyes.
"CANNONS READY?" The officer yelled, and Enjolras's blood ran cold, he'd forgotten about the cannons.
"DOWN WITH YOUR HEADS, AND HUG THE WALL! ALL ON YOUR KNEES ALONG THE BARRICADE!" Enjolras cried.
"FIRE!" The thunderous boom of the cannons shook the ground beneath their feet, the barricade shuddered from impact, and debris scored the air. He couldn't see, where was everyone?! Wait, there were shouts behind him. He turned and leapt from his spot atop the mass of objects forming their barricade, he needed to find his friends. He stumbled through the dense smoke. A hand suddenly grasped his sleeve. Panic seized him momentarily, before glancing down and recognizing the long, slim fingers that gripped the fabric on his arm. Feuilly! But no sooner than he'd recognized the fan maker, had the older man released him and disappeared into the smoke. He felt himself hit the pavement suddenly, his face pressed against the gritty filth of the cobblestones. He spotted fallen men, none looked familiar. Retrieving his fallen rifle, he lurched to his feet and returned to the top of the barricade once more. After a brief moment of harsh deliberation, he trained his gaze on the captain of the gun, already readying his gun.
Combeferre, who had rushed to stand beside him, took notice and spoke quickly.
"Enjolras, he appears as if he could almost be your brother! He can't be more than twenty-five at most!" His gentle-natured friend observed.
"Yes, he is." Enjolras replied, already hating himself.
"Well then he is mine too. Let us not kill him." Combeferre pleaded.
"Let me alone, Combeferre! It must be done." Enjolras exclaimed, setting his jaw and training the rifle on the young artillery-man. A tear fell down his cheek, and he fired.
His second intentional execution. Another of his countrymen fallen.
His terrible deed managed to gain them several precious minutes, but even this short lived advantage did not serve them well once the soldiers found a replacement to man the cannon. Enjolras ducked as the cannon roared again, but it wasn't alone in its blast this time. The barricade jolted from the quick succession of multiple cannon shots, and two of the shots exploded through their fortress, sending debris and men flying. They all quickly scrambled for their weapons and rushed to the top of the barricade to defend themselves. And it was upon reaching the summit of their fortress that they were met with a wall of blue uniforms.
The Guardsmen had advanced, and were scaling the barricade from the opposite side, as Combeferre, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, all of them tried in vain to beat them back. Enjolras raised his rifle and fired two shots in succession from the double barrel before throwing the now useless rifle aside and drawing his sword. But there were too many, and the students were forced backwards off the barricade quickly. Comrades cried out in agony as the soldiers overtook them. He turned and jumped to the pavement once more, and turned just in time to dodge a blade as a soldier tried to take advantage of his turned back. Enjolras hit the man over the head with the hilt of his sword, and watched him fall unconscious. Suddenly there was a pair of hands grasping at his waistcoat, he looked down into the face of Bahorel. The poor man couldn't even stand – a sword had cut across the back of his knees, and he'd been stabbed in the shoulder. His face was contorted in agony, feathers were matted in his hair, and tears ran tracks through the grime on his face.
"Bahorel!" Enjolras grasped one of his arms as he tried to support himself against Enjolras's side. Enjolras held him tight and half dragged the poor man into the Musain, where he gently but hurriedly laid him near the bar, "Hold on, Mon Ami, we'll get you patched up! I'll return in a moment!" He murmured, briefly laying a calming hand on his normally cheerful friend's cheek. He then stood and returned outside, where he found Bossuet and Prouvaire desperately banging on a door, pleading for the family to let them in, to no avail, Enjolras saw the shuttered window above them pulled closed even tighter. He ran to them and pulled them by the backs of their shirt collars towards the entrance of the Musain, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac had already gathered along with Joly and the old volunteer.
"We need the door! We need to barricade the door!" Combeferre cried, and the old man slammed them closed, standing by to allow Marius, who was in the process of gathering debris from the street to barricade the door, inside. Get inside you fool! Enjolras screamed in his head.
Suddenly, a shot rang out, Marius stiffened and fell. Enjolras lunged forward to restrain the old volunteer, but the man was already out the door. Enjolras gritted his teeth and set about ushering the others up the rickety stairs to the second floor. As he wheeled about to retrieve an axe from behind the bar, he suddenly remembered Bahorel. He glanced around, his searching gaze finally falling on his wounded friend. He knelt by his side, and placed two fingers beneath his ear. He was alive, barely, but he was still alive, though consciousness had long left him.
"Oh, mon ami, mon pauvre ami. Je suis tellement désolé."[Oh, my friend, my poor friend. I am so sorry.] Enjolras murmured, not wanting to leave him but fearing he had no other option. A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder.
"Enjolras, we need to get upstairs!" Bossuet's worried face peered down at him.
"Non, je ne peux pas le laisser ici Bossuet, il est toujours vivant!"[No, I cannot leave him here, Bossuet! He is still alive!] Enjolras whispered, staring up at the bald man, silently pleading with him to understand. Many thought that blond young man with the icy eyes possessed a heart of stone to match his stony persona, but this was not true; Enjolras cared deeply about his friends, about his Patria, about strangers on the street. He simply felt uncomfortable expressing his emotions the way Courfeyrac did.
"Enjolras…" Bossuet appeared to deliberate for a moment, before composing his features and kneeling on the other side of Bahorel, "I shall stay with him. You take the axe from behind the bar, you know the one, Madame Hucheloup keeps it near the wine cask on the left. Take that axe and cut away the stairs as you go up. Do not worry about me, my luck may not help me much, but it shall help you. Now go!"
"L'aigle….Bossuet…."
"Go, Enjolras, go now! We haven't much time!" Indeed, the bald man was right, the Guardsmen had turned their attentions to the door of the Musain, their rough barricade wouldn't hold the doors closed for long. Enjolras lurched to his feet and retrieved the axe, he ran to the staircase and raised the axe. But before he swung the blade at the wooden steps, he turned once more to gaze at Bossuet sitting on the floor cradling Bahorel in his lap. The bald man smiled sadly at him, "I'll make it out, my luck's stayed with me thus far, it can help me out for a few moments more."
"Thank you my friend, I won't forget this." Enjolras turned and brought the axe down on the old wood as the Guardsmen began to batter the doors using their rifles as clubs. Again and again Enjolras broke apart the steps, climbing as he went, as soon as he'd ascended a step, he turned and chopped it from the frame. This he continued until he was at the top and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were reaching down to pull him through the opening at the top.
"Where is Bossuet?" Combeferre questioned, peering down through the opening where the staircase had stood moments ago.
"He elected to stay with Bahorel. I could not convince him otherwise." Enjolras replied, "Where are Joly and Feuilly?" For indeed, he did not spot the young medical student nor the fan maker among them in the room where they'd so often gathered in high spirits.
"They were not downstairs with you?" Prouvaire queried with a furrowed brow.
"No, I thought they were here with you three, they were both among us all on the main floor!"
"Are we sure they did not take refuge in the wine cellar or the back room?" Courfeyrac interjected.
"Mon Amis, I believe we have bigger things to worry about presently." Combeferre interrupted, gazing cautiously out the window into the street below. A crash echoed up the remains of the staircase from the main floor, footsteps thundered into the building. Enjolras looked around wildly, searching for any sort of escape. How stupid he'd been! Sending his friends up to the second floor! There was no escape from here! They were trapped!
"Enjolras, I don't….I don't want…." Courfeyrac panicked, tears cutting tracks through the dirt and sweat on his face.
"I know, I won't let you." Enjolras hushed his friend, his mind calculating. He locked eyes with Combeferre, his dear childhood friend. Neither saw a way out. But Prouvaire did, that wonderful man, who noticed beauty in everything, noticed every detail. The other three turned at his low cry, and followed his pointing finger. Of course! That back window, it opened out over the alleyway, where storage crates were stacked high against the back wall of the Musain.
"Might we be able to climb down to the street on those crates?" Jehan inquired, his reddish hair matted to his forehead from sweat and dirt. Enjolras and Combeferre hurried to peer out the window at the crates below, minding where they stepped so as not to alert the Guardsmen below them, who could be heard searching the wine cellar and back room.
"They are not the sturdiest, it's risky. We could trap a leg or slip and fall….." Combeferre began, always the voice of reason.
"But it's better than awaiting the guardsmen to find us and slaughter us like sheep, Combeferre! Bah! What's the worst that could happen? A broken leg? Those heal. Come, Courfeyrac, you first!" Enjolras cast aside Combeferre's concern, and the latter did not argue as he knew his old friend was right. The two steadied Courfeyrac as he eased over the window frame. They ensured he had a tight grip on the window frame before releasing him and watching him find his balance on the uppermost crate and ease his body down the stack, finding small footholds here and there, before finally letting go and jumping the final few feet to the cobblestones below. He made a thumbs up to the men in the window above him, signaling the crates' sturdiness.
"Prouvaire, out you go." Enjolras urged, glancing behind him in the direction of the staircase. The Guardsmen were running out of places to look on the main floor, it wouldn't be long before they figured out that they were on the second floor. Combeferre once again helped Enjolras to steady Jehan as he climbed out the window, though Enjolras noticed in the process a deep wound on Prouvaire's lower leg that had gone unnoticed prior to that point. The poet found his footing on the crates quickly, and Courfeyrac stood by below to help him lest he lose his balance. Prouvaire descended the pile of boxes, only losing his balance once, when he tried to rest his weight solely on his injured leg. Mercifully, the soft spoken man bit back a pained cry, and Courfeyrac guided him the rest of the way down.
"Ils ne sont pas ici ! Nous avons cherché partout, Monsieur!" [They are not here! We have searched everywhere, Sir!] Voices floated up the stairwell. Combeferre stared fearfully at Enjolras as they listened to the conversation below.
"Imbéciles! Regardez juste devant votre nez! Ils ont cassé les escaliers. Ces écoliers sont cachent au deuxième étage!" [you fools! Look right in front of your noses! They have broken the stairs! Those schoolboys are hiding on the second floor!] The now familiar voice of the National Guard commander was heard in reply to the soldier who had spoken first. Combeferre's eyes were large as saucers as he stared at his friend. Enjolras, however, had assumed a cold and stony expression.
"Go, Combeferre, quickly now!" He urged in hushed tones.
"Enjolras, you're coming aren't you? I refuse to leave without you!" Combeferre declared in an equally quiet voice.
"Combeferre, go!" Enjolras boldly shoved his oldest friend out the window, maintaining a hold on him until he gained his footing on the crates, thus preventing him from remaining next to Enjolras. Enjolras refused to look down at Combeferre, for he knew his best friend would be piercing him with a betrayed and heartbroken gaze. He may be afraid of what he knew was coming, but he would remain in order to protect his friends. He could hear the guardsmen rapidly trying to pile anything on the main floor high enough that would allow them to gain foothold on to the second floor.
However, in turning his gaze away from Combeferre below him, And having long since released his hold on his shirt, Enjolras failed to notice his friend lunge upwards and make a wild grasp on to the window sill, his grip on the window frame the only thing preventing him from falling fifteen feet to the pavement below. He failed to realize that his oldest friend was not letting him sacrifice himself while they escaped. But he definitely noticed the sudden sharp tug on his ankle, the sudden added weight on his ankle pulling him backwards.
"Batárd! Vous ne meurent pas bien que nous échapper!" [Bastard! You do not die while we escape!] The furious voice of Combeferre reached his ears, and Enjolras almost wanted to chuckle, his friend rarely swore. But before he could, Enjolras lost his balance at another harsh tug at his ankle. He tipped backwards, out the open window, his breath frozen in his throat as he grasped wildly for anything to catch on to, anything to stop his fall. Combeferre had quickly released his hold when he saw Enjolras begin to topple backward towards him, he fell back on the uppermost crates and extended his arms, praying to catch his friend. Courfeyrac lunged forward, but he was not quick enough, and Enjolras landed heavily, half on top of Combeferre, the crates breaking the rest of his fall, but the noise created was much too loud for the quartet's liking. Courfeyrac quickly reached up and eased Enjolras's torso off of Combeferre, who sat up with a gasp, trying to catch his breath from where his friend's fall had knocked it clean out of him. Courfeyrac gently propped Enjolras in a half sitting position against the crates, where the latter stared at him momentarily in a daze before trying to rise with a groan of pain.
"Are you alright, Mon Ami? You gave me quite a fright just then!" Courfeyrac murmured in concern. Enjolras nodded once in affirmation and turned his face to Combeferre. His expression a cross between a dark thundercloud and relieved. Combeferre didn't give him the chance to be angry, he embraced him fiercely and muttered in his ear.
"You do not do that again, do you hear? When it is our time, we go together. You are my oldest friend, I cannot live without you, René"
"I apologize, Julian, however I beg to suggest that we remove ourselves from the immediate area, we did create quite a racket just now and it shall not take those soldiers long to figure out that it was us." Enjolras replied, still winded from his fall.
"Where may we go? The streets are swarmed with National Guard and Police Spies! I hate to say, but it's quite obvious we have been involved in the fighting." Prouvaire spoke up for the first time, his voice pained and quiet, from where he leaned against the wall of the apartment building directly opposite this back wall of the Musain, balanced on one leg. Combeferre released Enjolras and went to the shy poet immediately upon seeing his agonized expression, the wound on his leg was deep, and he'd lost a fair amount of blood. Combeferre trained his eye on the wound briefly, though he did not study medicine as did Joly, he knew some emergency first aid from his and Enjolras's rough and tumble days of adolescence.
"This is neither the time nor the place to treat this, but we must keep it as clean as possible and prevent more blood loss, if for no other reason than to prevent the guardsmen from being able to follow us clear as day!" Combeferre paused and looked around at the other three, Enjolras was the only one who still had his cravat, or rather, the remains of his cravat, "Enjolras, may I borrow your cravat? I need to cover this wound quickly."
Enjolras was already untying the loosened knot over his breastbone and handing the strip of fabric to his friend, who in turn quickly fashioned a bandage from it and bound Prouvaire's lower leg in the navy cloth. This soon complete, Combeferre stood and helped support Prouvaire by wrapping an arm around the poet's torso to hold him up.
"Where do we go from here? We cannot stay here like sitting ducks and wait for the Guard to find us!" Prouvaire spoke through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. Enjolras looked at him in concern, he wouldn't be able to move very fast, one of them would have to carry him over their shoulders.
"I know a place, it's not far from here. It's one of Gav – " Courfeyrac spoke up, but then broke off to choke back a sob at the mention of the little gamin's name before continuing, "it's one of Gavroche's little hideaways, it should fit us all, not comfortably, but it will have to do until the Guard and police activity dies down a bit."
"Take us there, we need to get out of the street, we cannot waste any more time, I'm amazed those Guardsmen have not made it to the second floor yet." Enjolras replied tersely with a wary glance at the window above them. He looked at Jehan, "I apologize profusely Mon Ami, but I am going to have to carry you, we must clear out of here and you cannot move quickly with your leg."
Prouvaire looked at him aghast, but did not argue as Enjolras stooped low and balanced the poet over his shoulders. Courfeyrac glanced up at the window, but stayed silent as he motioned for Enjolras and Combeferre to follow him. The three young men crept through the alley, to the front of the Musain, and all four averted their eyes at the carnage that lay before them. Courfeyrac jerked his head at a narrow street branching off from the Place du Pont Saint Michel. They continued down this narrow street, which could hardly be counted a street as their shoulders brushed the sides of the neighboring buildings on either side of this "street". They reached the end, which let out on a normally busy street which they were all too weary to recall the name of at that very moment. This street was lined with shops and often choked with fiacres and carriages of bourgeois families on their daily outings. But now the street was empty, which was unusual, with it being mid-afternoon - normally one of the most hectic times of the day to be out and about - which they attributed to the close proximity of the fighting to this popular marketplace.
Courfeyrac led them along the side of the street, keeping to the few shadows left over from the night, until they reached a baker's shop, which was locked tight. Courfeyrac peered around the corner of this bakery, down yet another alleyway, though this was was a far cry from the dank alleys of the Saint Michel. Courfeyrac approached one of the bordering walls of this alley, and squinted in the shadows as he felt along the stone for a gap. There! An old wooden sign had been hastily thrust in front of it, but there was the entrance to one of little Gavroche's numerous hideaways throughout the streets of Paris. Enjolras stooped and allowed Prouvaire to slide off his shoulders, and crouched to follow Courfeyrac into the dim gap between buildings. The rough stone scratched at his clothes and his shoulders, this little hideaway definitely was not meant for grown men! The others followed behind him and Courfeyrac, silent except for once when Prouvaire jostled his leg in the tight space and let out a choked cry. Combeferre quickly hushed the man. Courfeyrac stopped ahead of them, and Enjolras peeked around the shorter man's shoulder. He breathed a sigh of relief, in front of his friend the tight space opened up and they could stand comfortably.
It vaguely resembled a little house, in one corner a pile of ragged blankets, one of which suspiciously resembled a lady's shawl, lay arranged atop a scant layer of straw. A wooden pail sat nearby, half full of musty water, and opposite what was clearly a bed, a small crate lay overturned. This crate Courfeyrac lifted, and from underneath the box he drew out a dented, blackened tin mug and a ladle in similar condition. These objects he handled almost reverently as he looked up at Enjolras.
"He has – had – spots like this all over the city, they're safe from the police, they're all hidden in plain view like this as well, easy to find if you know where to search." The dark haired student explained, "Let's get Jehan on the bed, there's water in that pail. It's a few days old but it's safe to drink. Here." He passed the mug and the ladle to Enjolras.
The three managed to move Prouvaire into a comfortable position on the bed, and Combeferre set about cleaning the wound as best he could with water from the pail, and then bound it up once again with Enjolras's cravat. A sudden wave of exhaustion caused Enjolras to sway, and he thrust an arm out against the wall of the Gamin's petit maison [little house]. This did not go unnoticed by Combeferre. Of course it didn't, the bespectacled man often seemed to know him more than he he knew himself.
"Enjolras, rest. We should all drink some water and rest. Prouvaire, might you be able to –" Enjolras was shaking his head before Combeferre even finished speaking.
"Jehan keeps the bed, I agree we need to rest, but I shall be perfectly fine right here. He need not have to share the blankets." Enjolras removed his red waistcoat, folded it, and lowered his weary body to the ground, placing the jacket beneath his head. At this moment, even lying on the cold, hard cobblestones felt like lying in the softest mattress. Combeferre looked at his friend as he closed his eyes, in both pity and concern. He knew that the stony front the Enjolras constantly wore was only a front, and he worried of when the time would come that his brother – in almost every sense of the word except for blood – would be hit by the true gravity of their failure, and the realization that all of their friends minus Prouvaire and Courfeyrac were seemingly dead.
Enjolras heard Combeferre and Courfeyrac both lay themselves on the pavement soon after he'd closed his eyes. All three of them lay close to Prouvaire and the makeshift bed, unconsciously seeking comfort in each others' presence. He expelled a long breath and let his bones relax, and let the sweet release of sleep overcome him.
For now, they were safe, or as safe as fugitive revolutionaries could be.