Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables. The credit for that glorious piece of literature belongs entirely to Victor Hugo.
A/N: This is a short character exploration piece about Grantaire that's based mostly on his death scene in the book. He's such an interesting character because he is doubtful from the start about the revolution and yet sees it through to the end out of his love for Enjolras. I thought his sacrifice deserved another look. This is mostly book verse with musical lines mixed in (Basically, Grantaire is present for some of the barricade scenes and wakes up from intoxicated stupor just as Enjolras is about to be shot). Please review! Thanks!
It's too quiet.
That was his first conscious thought. Grantaire peeled back his eyelids, raised his head up from his arms and gazed blearily around the room. He had slept through it all. His drunken stupor had transported him far away from the rage of battle; as he glanced around at the fallen bodies- the bullet-ridden corpses of the students- the hazy curtain left by the absinthe mix was harshly torn down. Within that single moment he understood.
There, across the room, behind the barricade of a pathetic billiard table, stood Enjolras. He was unarmed, his breast proffered to the soldiers like a target. Still, he stood proudly; he glowed, Grantaire thought, radiating righteous light as if the whole of his being was enlivened by the cresting promise of death.
"Take aim!" The sergeant shouted.
Twelve soldiers raised their guns. The line of rifles glinted with the dawn light peeking through the window.
Enjolras would die, now, before Grantaire could take another breath.
"Wait!" Cried an officer.
Grantaire breathed again. He watched, mind racing, as the weapons were lowered for a momentary reprieve.
He could walk away from this alive. He knew he could. The soldiers eyes were fixed on Enjolras, and Enjolras stared down the gunman nearest him. All Grantaire had to do was bury his head back into his arms; he could sprawl beside the bodies of the dead like he was one of them, and wait for the moment to run. He had a chance.
"Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged?" The officer asked, looking pityingly at the condemned man.
"No." Enjolras replied with calm defiance.
Grantaire swallowed hard. Enjolras. The bravest of them all. The shining symbol of what they were fighting for. What he had been fighting for, before doubt and drink had taken hold. But Enjolras was more than a symbol. This man was the reason he had started spending late nights drinking at the cafe; the meetings became his excuse to watch as fierce passion lit up the man's beautiful features when they talked of revolution. The faith Enjolras had in their cause was all that had held him at the barricade during the horrors of the past twenty four hours. And it was Enjolras' hand on his arm that made him believe, even just for a few brief seconds, that the people really would rise and fight, that all the world could be as good as Enjolras believed.
It wasn't the symbol of the revolution that Grantaire would miss. He would miss the man. He wasn't losing his leader today... he was losing the man he loved.
"Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?"
Were Enjolras to answer the question true, he would seal his own fate. Grantaire had watched as Enjolras took aim and fired. He had watched as Enjolras set his jaw against the torrent of shame and regret, sternly repeating that it had to be done. He had watched the man's fingers shake on the trigger.
Yet none of these memories were betrayed by Enjolras. His voice was strong and he spoke simply.
"Yes."
Grantaire felt tears glistening in his eyes. Enjolras had convinced himself that the murder of the artilleryman was necessary, and what had it bought them? Twelve guns aimed at the man's heart? But that was a leader's duty, Grantaire thought, bitterly: to believe whole-heartedly, to grasp at any hope of victory. Enjolras had put his faith in the strength of their barricade. He had put it in Inspector Javert's false information. He had even had faith that killing the artilleryman would give them a fighting chance. All of these disappointments were wounds that Grantaire could not see as he watched Enjolras now, standing tall and facing down the executioners. But there was one wound he could see. The man glowed, all alight… all except something deep in his eyes. There was a spark missing there. Grantaire knew its absence well; the light had been constant there, always, like an eternal fire, always... until the the moment Enjolras realized that they were truly, undeniably, and most certainly alone.
"The people have not stirred. We are abandoned by those who still live in fear."
That was the moment the light in his eyes had gone out- the moment he had finally lost faith. It was the moment he realized that the people would not rise.
"The people have not heard."
"Take aim!" The sergeant cried again. The soldiers raised their guns for the killing blow.
"Yet we will not abandon those who cannot hear."
Grantaire took a breath. Grantaire rose.
"Long Live the Republic! I'm one of them."
Every man in the room turned in shock at his pronouncement. But Grantaire only cared for one. Enjolras stared, enamored. There was something angelic, almost innocent in the gaze; he looked at Grantaire as if seeing him for the first time, and something bright, something shining flickered within those eyes. It gave Grantaire the strength he needed to take those next few strides to his side.
"Long Live the Republic." He said again. He turned to the executioners. "Finish both of us with one blow."
He looked back to his friend.
"Do you permit it?" He asked, his voice hardly breaking a whisper.
Enjolras answered by slipping his hand into Grantaire's. And he smiled. It was the brightest, truest smile Grantaire had ever seen on him. He could read in his face that they had the same thought:
They will see the people rise.
Twelve shots rang out.
The smile stayed on his face.