Well, if you know me, you know I love angst! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't kill me. -Marseillaise
"I led the revolution. I single handedly killed your son. I'm sorry." Enjolras says the words defeatedly, with almost no emotion. It is hard, it is always hard. He doesn't meet M. de Courfeyrac's eyes as the man is silenced for a minute. Then, grabbing the frail-looking blonde's lapels, he shakes Enjolras until the once-proud revolutionary can barely breathe, half-sobbing, half-shouting abuse.
Enjolras takes it without a word. In his mind, after all, he deserves it. Deserves every insult, every kick on the way out. Because he truly believed that they would win, that the revolution would succeed. So he led them to their graves. It would have been his grave, too, were it not for Grantaire. The drunkard had awoken to see Enjolras standing before a firing squad of sorts, and half-shielded him.
Four bullets struck him, somehow missing his vital organs. Grantaire, next to him and half in front of him, had been killed instantly, but Enjolras had had almost a minute of consciousness before the blackness claimed him, unable to move, and the only thing he could see was Grantaire's face. His eyes, glazed over in death, and his mouth, upturned in the ghost of a smile.
Courfeyrac's father, blinded by grief and rage, literally threw Enjolras out the door. The blonde landed on his shoulder, the one that had been shot cleanly through, and moaned aloud from the pain. Pain. It was his constant companion, his relic from the barricades.
Pushing himself up, Enjolras limped back to his flat. His eyes, once bright, were hollow and dead-looking. His face and body were thin and emaciated, and his hair was unkept and dirty. Altogether, he looked like a refugee. And perhaps that was what he was, but there was no refuge from his own tormented mind.
A shaking hand crossed out Courfeyrac's name. The list was short: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire, Bahorel. Feuilly had no family to speak of, other than their group of friends, and Grantaire had made it clear his family wouldn't care.
Combeferre's family had been the hardest. Enjolras had met M. Combeferre on one occasion, and he had seemed like a nice man. He was calm mannered and thoughtful, much like his son. Enjolras had knocked on their door, and when M. Combeferre answered it, it took all his will not to collapse. The older man did not rise at Enjolras' declaration, instea he quietly shut the door. Enjolras had left, feeling as if he deserved not that, but to have been killed along with his friends.
But Courfeyrac had been the last. The center of the group, it was almost ironic. Enjolras looked about his flat. It was sparse, and organized. He had barely eaten since the barricades, or slept. His frame, slim before, was now barely skin and bones. Apollo, bright and fiery, was wasting away while the ghosts of his friends seemed to loom around him, saying "look at what you've failed to accomplish".
He died alone, surrounded not by his friends, or for what he believed in, but in his flat, without a friend in the world. After all- if you have nothing to die for, than what have you to live for? Enjolras' cause had been obliterated, he and his friends wiped from existence. No one would remember the heroic young men who fought bravely on the barricades of June 1832. No one would be better for it. All he had accomplished was grief, unimaginable grief. And that was reason enough, if any. No one would care if he died. No one at all.
I SAID I WAS SORRY
PLEASE REVIEW
-MARSEILLAISE