Surprisingly, Jean Prouvaire was not afraid.
He had been afraid before. He had not wanted to admit it, even to himself, but Jehan had been scared of death. He wanted to live a long life, get married, and have lots of children. Write more poetry. Jehan had never wanted to die young.
He understood the importance of the cause. The Republic was worth dying for. He truly believed that. But he still wanted to live.
Jehan did not feel that way now, even as a National Guardsman shoved him along roughly and another pushed the barrel of a gun into Jehan's head. Death happened to everyone. It was part of life. Jehan was going to die sometime or another. And the fact that he was dying here, with his friends, in defense of France, made him feel free. Happy, even. Jehan was ready. He was ready to die, to embrace the Grim Reaper with open arms.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
"Surrender."
Jehan looked up at the National Guardsman in front of him. He had a large gun slung over his shoulder, a sneer on his face, and gave the general impression that he thought everyone was less important than him.
"Surrender now and you will be spared. Tell us all you know about the plans of the traitors you were fighting with, repent, and swear allegiance to the king, and you will not be killed."
Jehan felt a swell of defiance bloom in his heart. Everyone died. Death did not matter. But his friends mattered. France mattered. The people mattered. The Republic mattered. The Revolution mattered.
"Viva la France! Long live France! Long live the Future!"
Jehan felt a burst of pain. And then nothing.