Enjolras closed his eyes, letting his last moments of life wash over him.
He was all alone in the top floor of the Corinthe, surrounded by death, blood and destruction. He could hear the soldiers shouting at each other beneath his feet in their attempts to build an impromptu staircase up after Enjolras had smashed away the previous stairs but their individual words didn't matter; their voices had all blended into a vaguely threatening buzzing sound, similar to locusts in flight. What he was very acutely aware of was the presence of his friends' bodies lying on the floor not far from him.
Joly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had perished right before his eyes when the soldiers had fired bullets up from underneath. Why Enjolras survived the assault when he should, by all means, be dead or injured was beyond him. But he didn't care anymore. He didn't attempt to escape out the open window or hide in a corner. He stood where his friends had fallen, accepting the sentence he had given himself, accepting his death, for that was the only way to atone for his crimes for sentencing his friends and fellow revolutionaries to death in this suicidal barricade mission of his.
The feel of the silky red revolutionary flag clenched in his hands, the warm sunlight streaming through the window to warm his back and the feather light brush of his blonde hair across his forehead were all sensations he drank in, knowing that those would be some of his last perceptions in this life. Other, less pleasant, feelings were present too; the metallic scent of his friends' blood cloyed the room, the smell of gunpowder and ammunition stung his nose, warm red liquid running down his face… and the feeling of defeat, of sadness, loss and pain that created a vast chasm inside him; an endless hole that could not be felt.
He had failed.
He had failed the revolution, dooming the people of Paris to once more live in oppression and poverty.
He had failed his Patria, leaving her once again to wallow in the darkness of monarchy, oligarchy and the endless night of despair.
But most of all, he had failed his friends; loyal people closer than family to him, people who would, without a second thought, gladly throw their lives down on his feet for him.
Enjolras had failed each and every single one of them, had watched them be cut down before his very eyes, dying for the revolution he had persuaded them was possible, dying for his idealistic vision of the future… dying for him.
Combeferre, the guide. Enjolras' oldest and most trustworthy of friends whom he had practically grown up with and whom had never left his side since childhood. Combeferre who always pushed his glasses up his nose when plotting ways to bring about the Republic in their many talks on achieving a bright future, whose extensive collection of books on philosophy, medicine and the natural world had kept him occupied for hours, whose soft spoken wisdom tempered Enjolras' hotheaded and passionate nature. He had always been there for Enjolras, had been the only person who Enjolras confided in and, to his great credit, never let slip any secrets or betrayed any trust. Enjolras and Combeferre were closer than any other of the Les Amis and both shared the burden of leading the group. Enjolras still recalled his gentle smile, astute intellect and wisdom and a general sense of comfort and home; feelings that associated Combeferre to be like an older brother to him. Combeferre had a brilliant mind, a gentle soul and never ending loyalty. Philosopher, medical student, bookworm, rationalist, reformist… brother. Now his body lay on the bloodstained, bullet strewn floor of the Corinthe, unseeing eyes directed at Enjolras, empty and devoid of all the gentle wisdom he had possessed in life.
Courfeyrac, the charmer. Enjolras always found his friend to be slightly more than fickle with his affections and had been a bit disapproving of his friend's nighttime activities but had still respected him and liked him, not only for Courfeyrac's uncanny ability to charm crowds and build relationships with people, but for Courfeyrac's kind and warm heart. He, Enjolras decided, was the epitome of charming and cheerfulness and many times had helped bring hope and laughter to the les Amis even in the darkest of times. Courfeyrac had brought the students' morale up during that dark, uncertain night before the barricades fell. He, with the help of Gavroche, had cheered everyone up and gave them hope in a time when Enjolras couldn't even give them hope. Courfeyrac had allowed himself to be the butt of some jokes in order for the men to laugh and Enjolras could still recall hours and hours of goofing off with Courf and the rest of the students during some of the lighter meetings at the Musain. But because of Enjolras, Enjolras with his suicidal dream of revolution, Courfeyrac would no longer kiss another one of his grisettes, flash that ever so charming smile, would no longer exchange dirty jokes with Grantaire and would no longer try to lecture Marius (futilely) about the art of flirtation and seduction. His bright, vibrant personality and life had been cut short for a cause that eventually failed. Enjolras couldn't stand the guilt that flooded his being.
Beside Combeferre and Courfeyrac lay Joly; the medical student was sprawled facedown, crimson blood leaking out from underneath his jacket. Still and unmoving; this was not the Joly Enjolras knew in life. Joly in life had been always in motion, always buzzing around with armfuls of medical books and mirrors, always ready to check himself (and the other Amis) for exotic ailments. Despite his overall neuroticism and inability to stop worrying, Joly had been a cheerful, humorous part of the group and had done all he could to help the revolution, from hiding illicit socialist pamphlets in his apartment despite the risk apparent, to healing those wounded on the barricade; working his medical miracles to bring back revolutionaries from the dead. He had healed people, saved lives but yet, the sad sight of him motionless on the floor reminded Enjolras of the tragic fact that, in the end, no one saved Joly.
The Les Amis who hadn't been with Enjolras at his last moments in the Corinthe had all perished outside. With the ruthlessness of the guards, Enjolras doubted anyone from his barricade had survived. Bossuet, Bahorel, Jehan, Feuilly, Marius, Gavroche, Eponine, the strange white haired man who had executed the police spy, Grantaire,… they had all died on the barricades, bent on pursuing the dream of the Republic.
Memories washed over him; joking with Bossuet about his bad luck and the moment he had found out that Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were in a ménage a trois… Bahorel's hot temperedness and numerous entertaining bar fights he had when the Les Amis were on nights out… Jehan's exquisite poetry which had on occasion moved Grantaire to tears and innocence, along with his tragic death by execution… Feuilly's determination and thirst for knowledge, the way he never let his life's circumstances get him down and continued soldiering on; in life as well as during the barricades… Marius… Dieu, he even missed Marius' lovestruck rants about Ursula or Cosette or whatever she was called, however much his lovesickness had irritated Enjolras in life. Grantaire… he was a different matter; he and Enjolras had always butted heads in meetings and never truly looked eye to eye; Enjolras disproving of Grantaire's alcoholism, Grantaire always making sarcastic, cynical comments on Enjolras' vision of the Republic… but in the end, Enjolras missed even Grantaire. The man had always harboured some respect to Enjolras, although he covered that up quite convincingly, and Enjolras had always tolerated the drunk and accepted him at the very least.. enough to make him an established member of the group. But he hadn't seen Grantaire at the barricades or fall at the hands of the soldiers… where could he be? Still alive perhaps?
Gavroche, Eponine and the white haired old man were not official members of the Les Amis d'ABC but they had contributed all the same to the Republic. Gavroche had given his life to collect ammunition, even throwing a bag back to their side of the barricade seconds away from being shot for the second time and his presence at the regular Les Amis meetings were always welcome because he was the symbol of what they were fighting for; a symbol for all the poor, uneducated and uncared for children of Paris. Eponine was more of a puzzle; she attended their meetings regularly, yes, she was welcomed by the Les Amis and helped distribute pamphlets, true, but Enjolras could tell that she was there mostly because of Marius, not really for the cause. Still, she had given her life to save Marius at the first attack that nightmarish night and, as a chain effect of her sacrifice, Marius lived to protect the barricades with that powder keg stunt of his. Enjolras gave her a silent merci; enigma she was in life, she didn't stop being one in death. The white haired man helped as well and Enjolras was forever grateful to him for saving his life when they first met, but he still scared Enjolras a bit. The way he had executed the police spy Javert in such a cold blooded way had shook Enjolras to the core. He didn't know anyone from the Les Amis who could do that… except himself and the way he had killed Le Cabuc.
"Pray or reflect. You've got one minute." Such cold bloodedness ruthlessness! But it was of utmost importance to keep order on the barricades; one must not degenerate into anarchy while fighting for a republic. Still, Enjolras' heart clenched at his actions, still recalling the way Le Cabuc had begged and sobbed, the way Enjolras' finger had pulled the trigger, the recoil of the pistol and how the murderer's body had slumped to the cobblestones in a sick thump. "I judged myself also and you shall soon see what I have sentenced myself." And his judgement had come.
One by one, the soldiers clattered up the makeshift staircase of furniture they had made, guns, medals and boots clanking. Enjolras drew himself up to his full height, clenched the revolutionary flag harder and glared at them in contempt. They had gathered in a semi-circle between him and the hole in the floor, blocking up his escape, but Enjolras didn't care for escape anymore.
He was going to die, and he accepted it. The sentence he had imposed on himself was to be fulfilled. He will share the same fate as his friends, the martyrs of the barricades, martyrs of the revolution.
With numerous ominous clicks, eight muskets were loaded, drawn and raised. He was staring at the bloodstained tips of the bayonets. Enjolras raised his gaze and looked at the National Guard captain, shoulders tense, back straight, gaze defiant. He clenched the red flag of liberté, égalité and fraternité.
"Shoot me."
Eight index fingers tightened on musket triggers, waiting loyally for the captain's word of execution. Enjolras could feel the end coming. Against his will, his heart began to thump rapidly and he was ashamed to realize that he was afraid. His death wouldn't be like his friends' deaths; quick, almost unexpected and sudden. He was going to have to look death in the face, stare directly into the void alone and keep his composure. He was going to die like Jehan.
Suddenly, a clattering noise shook everyone out of the tense reverie they had been holding. A familiar figure with a mop of curly black hair clutching an empty bottle of absinthe had arrived. Enjolras couldn't believe his eyes; Grantaire, the drunkard whom he had always clashed with and scorned before, had decided to throw himself in the lion's mouth just so he could die with his Apollo. Enjolras couldn't decide whether this was an act of foolishness, bravery or utmost loyalty.
The soldiers seemed to share his train of thought; they were looking incredulously at Grantaire as Grantaire, with the air of a man dream walking, strode to Enjolras' side. He and Enjolras locked eyes for a second and Enjolras could see the guilt, adoration, wistfulness and respect that man harboured in his dark gaze. Without a word, Enjolras understood that Grantaire asked to die with him. His free hand reached out and grasped Grantaire's, feeling the clasp of friendship and, courage renewed, Enjolras faced the National Guard again. Lifting his chin, he raised the arm with the red flag up high, the very picture of Apollo with the wild blonde hair, flashing blue eyes filled with fire and marble features, the very symbol of defiance and loyalty to the Republic.
The National Guard captain's expression hardened and the muskets that had been lowered in Grantaire's unexpected entrance raised themselves once more. Grantaire's grip on Enjolras' hand tightened and Enjolras gave him a reassuring squeeze. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras could have sworn he had seen Grantaire's sober smile. A corner of his lip twitched up in turn to reassure him and Enjolras cried out in his clear, ringing voice;
"Vive la République ! Vive liberté, égalité et fraternité ! Vive la France!"
An explosion rang out as the mouths of the muskets shone brighter than the sun and Enjolras felt himself be propelled backwards by the force of the bullets. His hand slipped from Grantaire's as he felt Grantaire slump down to the ground and everything was brightness, so bright that the dim room of the Corinthe was blotted out by the radiance. Enjolras vaguely registered pain in his chest but all that was forgotten as he stared out at the clear blue sky, clutching the red flag of the Republic, dazzled by the brilliance of the heavens above.
His last thoughts were;
We will meet again mes amis… and the next time, our revolution will succeed. Toujoursliberté, égalité et fraternité…