Author's Note: This is a quick little story I wrote for Barricade Day 2016. I still love you, Les Mis fandom!
Waiting on the Dawn
They don't go into it expecting to die.
They don't go into it certain that they'll win, either.
They have plans. They have worked carefully to craft an alliance of students and workers and military men who will hopefully be able to help them keep the tide in their favor, but the revolution two years ago showed clearly how hard it is to earn a true victory.
So they hope and they plan for the best, but they also plan for the worst.
"Just in case." Bossuet had smiled as he slipped the slim bundle of notes into one of Musichetta's drawers. "Given my luck, and all."
"Given your luck, the drawer will burst into flames and there will be nothing left of everyone's directives." Joly had smiled as he spoke, taking Musichetta's hand in his. "You don't mind, love?"
"Of course not." It had seemed a simple thing, then, to hold their wishes, their friends' wishes, close. "You know I'm always happy to help."
When the sun is setting on June 6th, and Musichetta has done her duty in identifying and claiming those she needs to, it is still a simple thing, though far more bitter.
XXX
Feuilly's is the easiest to see to, and so she does that first. He has no family, though everyone who knew him seemed eager to call him friend. There are no letters to send; there will be no family to greet. There are just his few personal effects, and he has made it clear where he wants them to go.
The orphanage isn't terrible, so far as they go. The children at least appear to be decently fed, and though their clothes are worn and either too big or too small for them, they are well-laundered. A nun bids Musichetta to wait in a garden while she fetches the boy that Feuilly had named, and Musichetta does as she was told.
The boy is almost of an age to strike out on his own—to be cast out, really, to fend for himself when the limit of society's meager compassion has run out. He studies Musichetta with the weary, wary eyes of an older man. They do not look like Feuilly's eyes, being too dull, but Musichetta didn't know Feuilly well in 1830.
"Here." Musichetta holds out the small chest, trying not to think of the man who packed it.
The boy blinks, then takes the wooden box, flicking the latch and opening the lid. Feuilly's paints and brushes gleam in the afternoon sunlight.
"It didn't work this time." Musichetta can feel her hands trembling as she speaks, hoping that her words are something like what the vibrant, earnest artist would have wanted. "But keep hoping. Keep painting. Keep reaching out. There will be a brighter dawn."
She doesn't give the boy time to answer, turning and walking away.
Waiting for an answer will give her eyes time to remember to cry, and she can't afford that yet.
XXX
Enjolras' is also far too easy. The majority of his requests had been for her to redistribute documents among surviving revolutionary cells—something he hadn't even needed to ask her to do, really. She is just as deeply involved in the revolution as her boys are—were—and salvaging what can be salvaged after this set-back is important to her, too.
Enjolras has family, but they are several days to the south. It will be days at least before they hear news of his death, and he had wanted part of that news, at least, to come from his own pen. The letter is simple, short, perhaps a page and a half.
The charm that she slips into the envelope is cold, a beautifully worked cross that he had worn around his neck, beneath his clothes.
It belonged to my grandmother, Enjolras had said as he showed it to her. I want it returned to my family, assuming it isn't taken from my body.
It hadn't been cold when she took it from around his neck, though it hadn't been warm, either. It held the same temperature as the June air, which felt sticky and oppressive against her skin but seemed merely inert against the metal.
Her fingers shake as she tries to insert the charm into the envelope with the letter, and somehow both letter and cross end up on the floor, her tears falling upon them.
I do not know what has come to pass aside from my death. I hope that the price paid has been worth it. I hope that you are now in a true republic. But if you are not, I hope you will turn your mourning into strength, your pain into determination. All that I am I learned from you, Mother, Father, and I pray—
Musichetta rips her eyes from the page, hastily sealing words and necklace away, and hopes they bring comfort to those they are meant for.
XXX
Combeferre's lodgings are a disaster, a storage house for all manner of items that Musichetta isn't even sure she could name. Most will be going to his family, to siblings she has never had the pleasure of meeting, or will be sold to other collectors.
One collection he intends for a very specific source, though, and Musichetta claims it on the 7th, delivers it on the 8th.
The woman is older, somewhere in her late fifties or early sixties. Her skin is darker than Musichetta's, showing a mixture of heritage that Musichetta knows must have caused difficulty. Her expression, when she opens the door, is one of curiosity rather than fear. "How may I help you, young lady?"
"A gift for you." Musichetta pulls the sheet off the display case that contains many of Combeferre's butterflies. "From Monsieur Combeferre."
"Oh." The woman reaches out to touch the case, and tears instantly spring to her eyes. "To give this away, when he was so proud of it, had put so much time into it... I had thought perhaps... but I had hoped... is he truly gone, then?"
"Yes." Musichetta keeps her answers simple, quick, not trusting her tongue to more. If she tries to say more, she will scream. All dead. They are all dead.
Raising a hand to cover her eyes, the woman gives her head a shake. "He had so much to offer, in so many ways... such is the way with all lives cut short, though." Her eyes seem to sharpen as she raises them to study Musichetta. "Come in. I'll show you where to set it, and we'll have tea for a moment."
"I should—"
The old woman's hand reaches out to touch her wrist. "The dead are patient, child. And the living need to grieve, if they are to pick up the work left behind."
Musichetta stays for hours, and when she leaves nothing is better, but the night somehow doesn't seem quite so dark.
XXX
Prouvaire's rooms are like Combeferre's but more... interesting.
His list of requests had been longest, though he was also the kindest and most hesitant about them. How many times had he asked her if she was sure, if it would be too much of a burden?
It is a burden, but it is not too much of one. It is something to keep her busy, to keep her moving, and right now she suspects that is what she needs. If she were to stop moving, if she were to stop acting and instead think and feel...
Better to load skeletons—not human skeletons, as Combeferre had stashed in his lodgings, but strange amalgamations with tails and horns and wings upon frames that range from vaguely human to completely alien—into boxes. Better to find the drinking flagons that he had mentioned, with grips that appear to have been crafted from human arm bones and bases that look for all the world like fingers, and take them to the people that he requested receive them.
"He's gone, then." The man who receives her is bleary-eyed, looking half-asleep despite it being four hours past dawn. "We hoped he and Bahorel were some of the ones who got away, but of course they wouldn't be. Of course they'd be at the front..."
The man doesn't seem to notice her as he takes the flagons from their box and caresses them, tears building and then falling from his eyes. "Thank you. For bringing these here."
"It's the least I could do for a kind man." Musichetta doesn't force a smile, knowing that this crying man won't berate her for her grief or her weariness.
Despite the early hour he offers her a drink, which she accepts; he offers her opium and hashish, which she doesn't, knowing what Joly would say about both.
She takes Prouvaire's book of poems to a publisher the next day, and hopes that his ghost will rest easy.
XXX
Courfeyrac has extended family in the city, who see to his personal effects far more efficiently than she would have been able to. It was not his personal effects that he cared about, anyway, but rather the people that he is leaving behind.
It is a long list. A frighteningly long list, and she waits until she has completed several of the others' requests before embarking on it.
How often did he come to speak with her, to remove letters from the carefully wrapped stack or, more frequently, to add new ones? How many friends did he have in the city, the cat-clever man with the quick smile and the swift tongue?
Why didn't more of them go to him when he needed them most?
It is a bitter thought, not befitting her or the men that she loved, and Musichetta shoves it away. Many did, she knows. Many men died in the fighting, or were imprisoned afterwards; many women suffered similar fates.
Two-thirds of the letters are to women; one-third are to men. Musichetta finds it impossible to tell who was his lover and who his friend, and she supposes that it doesn't matter much, in the end. They take the letters that she gives them; they read them; they cry or they don't.
They raise their eyes to see her, shared grief in their depths.
They all continue on.
Some of these people will fight beside her, she thinks, at other barricades. Some will fight in the days leading up to barricades, writing, publishing, talking.
Some won't. Some have been broken by what has occurred, fear held fast to their hearts, but they are few and far between, and with Courfeyrac's fiery words in their hands...
She keeps the ones that she can't deliver, the ones that would go to other dead men, in a locked chest, just a few more ghosts to add to the ones that she is already carrying.
XXX
Bahorel's room is something like Prouvaire's and nothing like anything else that Musichetta has ever seen.
His request is surprisingly simple, though, and she takes care of it the day after delivering Courfeyrac's letters, needing something simple to occupy her time but not her mind.
The man who answers the door is small, young, and the accent with which he greets her renders his worlds almost unintelligible. "Who're you, then?"
"A friend of a friend." Musichetta holds out a note. "Do you remember a man named Bahorel? You would spar with him frequently?"
"Course!" The young man's whole countenance seems to change, and he eagerly reaches to take the letter. "I haven't seen or heard from him in days. I was worried that he might have..."
Inside the letter is money—a great deal of money—and a note promising more from the banker. It is the money that Bahorel's family sent for him to use for the summer and fall, and he had been adamant that they wouldn't be upset by his disposition of it.
"He wants you to do whatever you'd like with it. Take on an apprenticeship, especially in the publishing industry. Publish something of your own. Even..." Musichetta can feel a tiny smile tug at her mouth. "Even go to school, if that is your wish. A Southern lawyer would be a beautiful thing, save for the lawyer bit."
"I..." The young man sputters. "But... surely..."
"His siblings are being cared for by his parents, given their own stipend. This was his to spend, and if he could not spend it doing what he always did..." Musichetta leans forward. "There is also a list of names. I have crossed out the ones I know to be deceased. Be careful when approaching the others. Events like those that have transpired can change people. But if you have it in your heart to try..."
The young man straightens, and Musichetta knows from the look in his eyes why Bahorel liked him. "I will do my best."
"That's all he would ask."
It's all any of them can do, really, and so she turns to continue her missions.
XXX
Grantaire left no notes, but he did leave paintings and sketchbooks.
Musichetta claims many of them, and no one in Grantaire's family tries to stop her. Why should they? The pictures mean nothing to them, and will be worth nothing on the market. To Musichetta, though...
He was not the most talented artist, in her humble opinion. Proportions are not always accurate, but the sense of style, the vibrancy and life in the images, is something she would not trade for all the world.
Who else would have drawn Bossuet and Joly laughing in front of the fire? Who else would have captured the quiet contemplation in Joly's eyes as he and Combeferre discussed some new advancement in medicine? Who else would have dreamed of sketching Bossuet as he slept with his head on one of the tables in the Musain?
There are many other images, of course. There is an entire sketchbook devoted to Enjolras, she thinks, and it would be a bit more disturbing if the images weren't so soaring. There are Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and far too many images of Courfeyrac setting things on fire. There are Jehan and Bahorel, more often than not surrounded by spooks and old gods and iconography that Musichetta will have to look up.
There is an image of her dancing, Joly on one side of her, Bossuet on the other, and the joy on their faces is captured with the loving hand of a true friend.
The pictures are worth nothing to anyone else, but to her they are worth the world, and she treasures them deeply as she arranges them about her rooms, a shrine to those who have left her behind.
XXX
Joly and Bossuet leave no particular requests for her, though their ghosts follow her everywhere she goes.
Turn your bed to align with the compass, Joly's voice whispers in her ear, and she does so, hoping that perhaps that will make the weight in her chest lessen overnight.
When misfortune finds you, doff your cap and greet him like a proper gentleman! Bossuet had demonstrated just that. Nothing will put him off more than a bit of cheer, and perhaps you'll save a little bit of trouble for yourself.
She keeps Joly's cane, leaning against the fireplace. She will find someone who needs it, one day, and she will give it to them, as Joly would have wanted. Until then, she will hold it at night, and remember the man whose hands rubbed smooth the wood.
She keeps Bossuet's second-best jacket, the one with the stain on the side pocket. He had never quite been able to explain where the stain came from, and they had spent far too long coming up with fantastic stories that became more ludicrous by the sentence as to where it could have originated. She remembers them—remembers their voices—as she strokes the fabric.
People come to see her—more people than she had expected. Combeferre's widow friend takes to inviting her for tea at least once a week. Bahorel's little protege brings her breakfast ten days after the funeral. Courfeyrac's friends suddenly appear to be everywhere, offering her a nod or a quiet word or a sad smile whenever they meet her eyes.
They are not the people she wants to have by her side, but they are good people. They are people she needs, even if they are not people she wants, and she takes what they offer with as much grace as she can manage.
Joly and Bossuet are dead, but she is not. Their cause is not. She will not let it be, as long as there is breath in her body.
And hopefully, someday, the price they have all paid will bring the dawn they have hoped for.