The room was eerily silent. No sound remained of the vicious and one-sided battle that had taken place here, not the echo of a shout nor the blast of a firearm. There was not even the tell-tale ringing in the air of a place where so much sound had been present and then suddenly was silenced.

Not a quiver hung in the air. If it were not for the state of the room, the man would not have known anything terrible had happened here. And yet. Destroyed furniture littered the streets. Blood was still being washed away from the cobblestones. The staircase of the very room he stood in had been demolished; he'd had to haul himself up by a rope lowered by the previous men up here. Casings rolled near his feet and he looked down to ensure he did not trip. There were bullet holes showing through the blood-spattered floorboards. The dying rays of the day's sun shone through the ones in the walls.

The national guardsman watched the sun beams dance in silence.

He was doing one final, routine sweep of the position formerly held by the rebels the day before. Their bodies and supplies had all been gathered up, as had what remained of their barricade. There was little left to do, but the man felt the need for a final check.

He stood there, trying not to think while still remaining observant. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the sound of so many dying men, some barely past childhood, though silence reigned now. With a sigh that collapsed before it passed his lips, the man sat down with his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, their lids heavy with regret. It would be necessary to return to his other men soon, but not yet.

There was no explanation for it, but he felt he owed it to the still and sunlit, but damaged, room to linger a little longer. So he sat and rested.

The sun shone on his face – it felt wonderful, as if the previous day's carnage had not occurred. He peeked his eyes open. They alighted on a scrap of paper crumpled near him in the upper corner of the room. Curious, the national guardsman picked the scrap up. It felt thick – better quality paper than he was expecting – and was creamy in colour. He gingerly unfolded it, surprised to see words written hastily in pencil. He had to squint to read them, as the pencil had rubbed and the writer seemed to be possessed of a shaky hand, but he held it to the sunlight through one of the larger bullet holes and read.

Dear Apollo

Enjolras

Dearest Apollo

Dear Enjolras

These top lines were struck through with pencil as if the writer were displeased.

Apollo – Enjolras,

I know you dislike the moniker, which is why it is difficult for me to start this letter.

The next lines were also crossed out.

I am taking this time to say

What I write now that I could not say to your

What I wish I had told you

The rough, dark strokes of the pencil accurately conveyed how difficult a time the writer was having articulating their thoughts, but they finally seemed to steel their nerves and proceed.

What I cannot tell you to your face, and what I am having trouble even formulating into words, is that, though I know this seems difficult to believe, I always had a reason for attending meetings. I had a reason for participating in this uprising. I have a reason for sitting here now in the lamplight, even though my stomach is curdling with the cowardly fear of what tomorrow will bring.

Please bear in mind that you will not think my reason greater than the others' reasons, or your own; I still do not fight for liberty or freedom, nor do I fight with the fervour and belief that you and the others (the others because you inspire them so, though you will insist that is not the case) have already shown.

But I do fight for something.

And that something is you, Enjolras. It has always been you. I will admit it took me some time to realize this was the case, but it is true, down to the very core of my ruinous being.

I can see you from where I sit at this window. Your hair still manages to radiate even in the rain.

Forgive my penmanship, as the lighting is terribly poor and my hand is unsteady despite my best efforts (the bottle I have beside me is reserved entirely for after I have penned this poor excuse of a letter, but that does not stop my hand from its tremors) and I would much rather look at you from my perch than look upon my page.

The boys are afraid. Of course they are. They are still as angry and fiery, but nighttime tends to soften all the hard-won beliefs of day. And with the losses of Bahorel, and Jehan, and Mabeuf hanging over their souls...Try to understand their frailty, for I know you do not allow fear to grace even your innermost thoughts. I watch you walk among them, Enjolras, and you damn near trail what little light there is to be found on this black night. I am humbled to watch you spread fervour and cheer, even now. It is like tracing a comet's path across the inky-coloured cosmos.

I am no simpleton. I know you will never read this, just as I know I will never give this to you. I pray it never sees the light of day, not unless it is the light of that dawn you tell all the men is so near the breaking. Words and sentiment such as these are not fit for a day less grand than one such as that.

I wish I could believe that day will come, Enjolras. I wish I could believe it will dawn tomorrow, and I will hand you this page myself as we watch the sky light like a match catching fire.

But I know it will not.

I find it hard to believe that day will ever dawn. But I know you believe that. And I believe in you, in your power to believe and share that belief, and turn that belief into action that might, just possibly, mean something.

I am grateful that even I can see that within you, grateful that I am witness to the glory within.

I think I would love you all the same, even if I were not blessed enough to see. I thank whatever gods there are every day that I am blessed enough.

I have thanked all the gods every day for bringing me to our group of friends, and I thank them now, even as the fear for tomorrow begs to be quieted with drink. I thank them for you.

And now I thank you, Enjolras.

I love you.

The grimy letter did not appear to be signed. There was only a capital "R" on the torn bottom of the page. The national guardsman traced its path with his gloved hand.

He was unsure of how long he stood there, the heat of the sunlight steadily growing weaker. He ran his eyes over the words again and again. There was something beautifully tragic about the poetic words scribbled in poor pencil; they were almost as haunting as the room in which he stood.

At his fellow guardsman's shout, he startled to his feet and stuffed the paper into his uniform pocket.

He doubted the writer of this letter would be pleased to know someone had read the last words of their heart, let alone that the someone was a member of the guard who had shot all their compatriots dead. But then again, one does not pen what one does not wish to be read, even if it is only read by oneself over and over again in times of need.

The national guardsman doubted the writer thought their words would bring comfort to anyone but themselves, but the words did bring comfort to him, some minute modicum of it at least.

He clung to that comfort as he left the area where so many lives had been lost at the hands of him and his men-in-arms. It was what little hope he had to carry him home.

Some post Barricade Day sadness.

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