Nothing Like A Dream
'Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy'
Enjolras looked around at the carnage surrounding him- his Patria lay in tatters at his feet. He raised his head and slowly acknowledged that 8 musket barrels were currently pointed at his chest- beyond them 8 grim faces belonging to battered National Guardsmen. Enjolras let his carbine fall from his hand with a loud clatter which resonated round the remains of the barricade. It landed a few feet from the lifeless body of Grantaire which had been silenced seconds after his asking 'Do you permit it?'
Those men, who he was proud to call his friends, had died believing that they were carving out a new, better life for their families and the populace. Enjolras despite the destruction around him still believed that too. Though he knew he was the only revolutionary left on that grey morning in June, 1832, he still had the passion and hope that maybe one day, like a phoenix, new revolutionaries and a new republic would rise from the ashes and save France. Save his Patria.
Enjolras was giving his life so that a million others could one day live without hunger and pain. He was sacrificing himself so his one true love could have her chance at life. So with death staring him in the face Enjolras did not flinch because as he had told his friends back in their meetings at the Musain, when none of them knew that they would all die in a few weeks, 'the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy'.
As the guardsmen loaded their muskets, Enjolras let a single tear fall down his young face, a tear for those who had died fighting in pursuit of the one true dream and for his parents and sister , unaware that their son and brother was currently living his last moments thinking of them.
Eight flashes suddenly lit the gloom and the stoic leader of Les Amis d'ABC slumped to the ground, taking in his last look at the Café Musain where he and his friends had dreamt of a better future.