Five Things That Never Happened to Combeferre
An overused format, I know, but oh so much fun. My sincerest apologies to Victor Hugo, Combeferre, Enjolras, Javert, Jehan, and the Marquis du Condorcet.
Which is your favorite? Make me happy by reviewing and let me know!
Combeferre, his ears still ringing with the sound of his cannon's discharge, gave a grim smile of satisfaction at the effect that the grapeshot had on the barricade looming above him.
The cries cut mercilessly through the gloom, and he was forced to remind himself that the insurgents were dangers to society, that they had anticipated death when they began this foolhardy riot of theirs.
He knew and cared nothing for their ideology, their strange fanaticism and dreams. He just wanted them to let him and his affluent family be.
With a sigh, he bent over and began to adjust his cannon's aim. She truly was a beautiful model, belching death in order to prevent further bloodshed and protect order. When this was all over – and it would be soon – perhaps he would get a medal for his brave service to the king.
Right now, though, he had lost his appetite for glory. Best to just get the horrible job done and go home. That was it.
He felt a gaze from the barricade, not entirely hostile, falling upon his back. An impossibly blue eye shone out from between the spokes of a wheel. Transfixed, Combeferre stood and met the stare, wondering what it wanted of him.
The eye suddenly became troubled and, inexplicably, a tear formed and leaked from its corner. This was almost more than the young artillery-man could bear. Don't cry, Combeferre wanted to tell it. What's wrong? Everything will be alright.
An explosion, then, and a distant pain through his chest. His limp body pirouetted around twice with a dancer's agility, his head raised towards heaven, before he fell with a crash on top of his cannon, his life. A final breath, a distant gratefulness for the clean shot, and everything went black.
...my brother.