Years Ago In Our Backyard
Vois sur ton chemin
Gamins oubliés egarés
Donnez- leur la main pour les mener
Vers d'autres lendemains*
The brigade of attackers came surging upon them, but the stronghold held fast, an immense thicket of branches and stones, and rusty tin buckets found behind the garden shed. A shabby red coat is hung from a branch fixed firmly on top of the mound, too tattered to be seen in any kind of respectable company, and too tight to fit Enjolras anymore regardless, for he eats his greens. His mother is more than happy to get rid of the impertinent old thing at last. (Of course, she didn't count on the appearance of a new maroon jacket courtesy of his uncle, but it's certainly not as loud and so she puts up with it. He's a boisterous imp, and she rather hopes the bumps to his head will serve to knock some sense into it. This rather sensible thought gives her hope; she'll make a gentleman out of her son yet.) But Enjolras doesn't think of his mother as he stands on top of his tower of clutter, broom in hand and chest puffed out in fearless pride as he braces himself for the onslaught. There are heroes who slay dragons, ancient manuscripts in dusty books, tales told of brooding heroes who free damsels in distress and defy the clawed clutches of ogres; there are stories of bright eyed, fair haired men who would fight the thunderous sea itself to know such glory. A mother's love can only count so far, after all.
(Today was a good day; the sun came out and time stood still. We basked in the heat, flies caught in the amber eye of the dragon.)
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Courfeyrac lunges from his right, stick in hand and laughing loudly. "Surrender!"
The boys line up, ready with their basket of ammunition (some mouldy old apples that have long since fallen over the fence from the neighbour's tree). "Come and get us!" Grantaire dances and jeers, pulling faces over the barricade, earning him the first blow in the face from some half-rotten raspberries. Courfeyrac whoops with delight, doubled over at the sight of his friend's shocked face dripping beneath a stream of berry juice.
Their ordinarily solemn-faced leader grabs a handful of blueberries from the basket near his feet, and turns to his companions with fire in his eyes.
"Alright boys. Take aim, and...FIRE!"
(A wave rose up, and washed the world away, away).
Sens au cœur de la nuit
L'onde de l'espoir
Ardeur de la vie
Sentier de la gloire**
(The tower crumbles and the kingdom falls to dust.)
Enjolras feels a tug at his hand, and turns to see Grantaire, white-faced beneath the dripping red juice of summer fruits. He pulls, sheer panic in his eyes. "Come back, come back, they're gonna get you. Call a time out!" Enjolras laughs scornfully at the sight of his friend's silly fear, for this is so typically Grantaire, a coward who dances on the barrels of guns. With a smirk he turns to share the joke with Jehan, but his friend has got lost somewhere in the chaos, and his words melt into the air.
A resounding crash tells him their makeshift barricade has been breached. There are shouts of victory from the other side, gleeful cries carried on the wind to where the two boys stand amidst a flurry of defenders. Enjolras curses, an oath he's heard hooted by urchins in the street outside; his father would be scandalised, and his mother would faint, and he relishes in the wicked thought. (He would apologise later and beg to be allowed some pudding too).
"RUN!" someone yells, although he doesn't have time to see who, for Grantaire is already dragging him away, hand gripped tightly and nails digging into his wrist so hard that the red marks there turn to open cuts and scrapes. It stings, really stings (how had he not felt the pain before?) and Enjolras begins to protest, but Grantaire is relentless, desperately trailing him away.
"OPEN THE DOOR!"
They all race to the shed and bolt themselves inside with a whimper.
Silence.
Suddenly, a face appears at the window, and Enjolras flinches, blinking in confusion; it is a face he has not seen for a long time, as though from another life, but there is no time to question the darkness enveloping his eyes (wasn't it daylight just moments ago?), no time to acknowledge the strange smell of gunsmoke in the air, for he is driven from his reverie by a deafening blast nearby (Sounds like Joly's having trouble with his chemistry set again) and suddenly he is alone, and his friends are at his feet.
You're tired already? But the battle isn't over; it's only a game, and we've hours before dinner.
He staggers to the back of the shed, unsure what is this sticky feeling trickling down his face. His jacket is ripped at the seams on his elbow (well at least his mother will approve). But there shouldn't be such a tight pain in his chest, and he slumps to the floor, gasping for air. Any moment now. Any moment, she will come and scold me for making such a mess of the garden. We'll have to miss supper again to set things right.
There are shouts from somewhere above him, excited voices rising above the heavy pounding in his head, and the eyes are before him once more; Enjolras stares up in confusion. (I know who you are, you pelted us with berries from the garden hedge that summer. Where did you go? You look so grown up. But boy am I glad to see you.)
"He's the leader!"
(Have you seen the baby, Gavroche? Tell him the game's over, you win. It's getting dark out, it's past his bedtime.)
"Take aim!"
(That moustache looks ridiculous by the way. What are you doing on the other side of the fence?)
"Fire!"
A shot rings out, and the waves crash down as the fair-haired hero falls backwards through time and through space.
Bonheurs enfantins,
Trop vite oubliés effacés,
Une lumière doree brille sans fin tout au bout du chemin***
Fin.
AN:
*Look upon your path
Children lost and forgotten
Lend them a hand
To lead them
Towards other tomorrows
**Feel in the middle of the night
The surge of hope
Ardor of life
Pathway of glory
***Joys of childhood
Too quickly forgotten, erased
A golden light shines forever, to the end of the path