There was in the air of that Parisian night something spectral, as if the spirits of those about to die had already departed from their bodies and were swirling about fantastically in the mists that rose off the Seine. The barricades were built, and the men who manned them waited. Skirmishes had occurred already but no full force attack had yet been launched.
Enjolras paced the barricade, his lofty brow creased in concentration. Surely the populace of Paris must have realized by now that revolution was at hand, why were they not storming the streets as they had done in the days of his forefathers, when the Bastille had been the beginning of the blood-letting that had cured the fatherland of it's apoplexy. Temporarily at least.
Another brief skirmish was launched by some members of the National Guard. Enjolras moved with speed as he saw guardsmen take aim and fire, but he was too late. Another had also been rushing to that spot, but they also had not made it in time, and the dark haired young man crumbled to the ground before the gendarmes retreated after a fierce volley from the men at the barricade.
Enjolras reached the man's side and recognized his face, it was Marius Pontmercy. He took the dying man in his arms, for dying he was, he had been shot in the stomach, and he had no need to ask Joly for medical advise. Marius wheezed, managing a brave smile for the leader in red, on the other side, a young boy held Marius' hand. The boy had the robust face of youth and a hardened look, and held the dying Marius' hand as if it were the most sacred object they had ever beheld.
"Long live freedom" Marius said before expiring in Enjolras' arms. The savage and cold deity allowed himself a mournful look, almost to the point of shedding tears, but not quite. He and Combeferre carried Marius' body while the young boy followed muttering 'too late, I was too late to save him.' Enjolras shuddered, inside he felt something akin to this youth's survivor's guilt, he had been rushing to get Marius down, but had been too late as well. He shook the feeling, he had to stay alive, without him the whole revolt would crumble, he knew it. It wasn't that he considered himself superior to the others, but he was the fuel that kept the fire going, without him it would fizzle out and be extinguished.
Courfeyrac freely shed tears over the sad fate of his friend.
"I should never have introduced him to our cause, he could have happily lived out his days with his sweetheart as a democratic Bonapartist" he said more out of regret for the fate it had brought onto his friend than actual regret for illuminating Marius' mind by inviting him to their meetings.
"Quiet Courfeyrac" Combeferre said in his gentle tone "you cannot blame yourself, nor should you, you brought Marius to the meetings and he learned, he became more informed, you could not have foreseen this. None of us could, but don't you think he knew this was a real possibility when he came with us to these barricades. He knew what he was doing, so do not blame yourself for it Courfeyrac" Combeferre helped his friend to his feet, and offered him his necktie as a handkerchief. The meer prescence of Combeferre helped to calm the grieving down. Like a balm of kindness Combeferre's quiet and resiliant bravery inspired the others to remain calm just as Enjolras inspired them to fight.
A man in uniform approached the barricades. He claimed to be a volunteer, after some questioning he was given a rifle and ammunition. This man seemed to have the same air about him that Combeferre himself did, the air of a keen and calm mind in conjunction with a generous heart. He positioned himself on the barricade, closest to the most dangerous spot but was also the most central location, as if he were only there to rush to the aid of the others.
The National Guardsmen launched their first legitimate assault. The volunteer, for no one had inquired after his name. Names gave personableness to an individual, you had a name of a person you could almost say you had known them, and on a night like this when all but a few of the stoutest hearts at the barricades felt death's spectral fingers grasping them, you didn't want to get to know anyone more than you had to, because you felt that the chances of you having to watch that person die were far too great for you to risk acquaintence.
The first attack raged on, volleys were exchanged, some men fell, not all died, some were simply wounded and were carried into the cafe to be tended to. As the gendarmes fell back the defenders of the barricade fell into a pensive state of peace. They knew another attack would come, that this was just a testing of their fortitude.
The men of the barricades sat and waited, some, whose sweethearts were working in the cafe to tend the wounded spoke what they knew might be their final words to their loved ones. Others, who were without mistresses, or whose mistresses had not came to the barricades, drank together and talked of anything they could to distract themselves from the oppressing weight of the night.
A drizzle began to rain down on them, dampening some of the gunpowder, most took shelter in the cafe. It was an evil portent, the rain that was falling from the heavens. They did not possess a great amount of ammunition at the onset, now, with some of it dampened, it increased their disadvantage dramatically.
The youth who had been present with Enjolras when Marius died seemed vaguely silent, as if they were internally wrestling with some concept previously unknown to them. The young boy sat in a corner by himself, refusing drink, declining conversation, remaining outside in the rain so very wrapped up in thought that it took him a moment to realize that they march of guardsmen's boots was approaching again.
The defenders moved to their positions, the youth readied his gun which they had protected from the rain by sheltering it under the eaves of the cafe's porch. Everyone wait in readiness as another assault was launched. This one was heavier than the lest, but less casualties, the men at the barricades who had been overcome by nerves and anxiety were now more calm, goodbyes had been spoken and wine drank. They could face their fate fighting for freedom and be content with whatever destiny dealt them on that deadly night.
Again the gendarmes fell back.
"We need more powder" Combeferre said to Enjolras.
"Half of it is wet through" Courfeyrac added, he was now in control of his emotions and was more hardened in aspect than anyone could remember seeing him. This was the stern Courfeyrac who would glare at you if you dared put a de before his name, this was not the charming flirt who had talked his way into the beds of dozens of grisettes. This was the paladin, not the playboy.
Before anyone could stop him, though both Courfeyrac and Combeferre had tried Gavroche had scaled the barricade and was disappearing over the other side.
"Gavroche" a suprisingly feminine voice called out from the base of the barricade. Gavroche paused for a moment, astride the barricade, looked back curiously, and then continued on before the two men could reach him. He was going to collect ammunition for the cause these men so dearly loved, a cause that he in his young heart loved just as passionately; he was getting ammunition to fuel the fight for freedom.
A shot rang out in the night as Gavroche was caught in the light of a streetlamp. A soft groan escaped that child's mouth and Courfeyrac, watching from the barricades tried to wrench himself free from Combeferre's gentle but iron grip. The philosopher would not let his friend throw his life away heedlessly, despite in his own heart there was the fact that Combeferre had a similar longing to recklessly run out there and drag the lovable gamin back to safety. Gavroche stood to his feet again and made his way back to the barricade only for two more shots to ring out and lay him flat once more. He did not rise this time.
The men on the barricades lay in stunned silence, as did the guardsmen as they saw clearly in the lamplight how small the person they shot had been. They made no effort to shoot the revolutionaries as they retrieved the boy's body. The youth who had been present at Marius' death took the young street urchin in his arms. There were tears in his eyes as he struggled, carrying a weight that seemed to heavy for his page-boy build to carry, but the young man refused any help and set the boy down next to Marius before retreating into the shadows to weep. No one disturbed him, they presumed he must have been a close friend to Gavroche, maybe an older brother type of figure amongst the urchins, for the youth was dressed little better than an urchin. The tattered shirt he wore was very loose and large on the young man, though he had it fastidiously tied about the neck.
In silence this youth contemplated many things, and could share them with no one. For, had the men at the barricades known that he was in fact a she, that she being a woman would have disqualified her from fighting and seen her banished to tending the wounded, all would have been for nought. She, Eponine, had hoped to die with Marius, now Marius was dead, and so was Gavroche, and yet she lingered among the living. These two deaths had sent a thousand thoughts bustling through the young woman's head. For both of these men had died valiantly, unafraid, and more than that, they had died fighting for something. Would it not be better to stay alive as long as possible and to try and save others, to try and save the friends of Marius seeing as she had failed to save him. Her death, were it needless, would achieve nothing, her life, were it useful, might change Marius' death from that of a misguided youth to that of a martyr in the eyes of Paris, and maybe even history. Were the revolution won, and freedom achieved, Enjolras would probably erect a statue to her beloved Marius Pontmercy, first to sacrifice his life on the barricades in the fight for freedom. In her head Epnonine saw herself in funereal black sitting at the base of a fine statue in the exact likeness of Marius and gazing at it in silent grieving until she withered away into the night and died of heartbreak, but died knowing she had served his memory well. She was also fueled by a jealous thought, here she was, risking her life to fight for freedom, to fight by Marius' side, and now for his memory, and where was his precious Cosette? Too spineless even to disobey her 'father' to join her lover at the barricades. She may have been robbed of priviledge and pretty things in her adolescence but she was found pride in knowing that there were things she was good at, that were honorable, that Cosette would never dream of doing.
Eponine wiped her tears away, her resolve hardening to granite. She would do as much as she could for the cause that Marius had died for, that would be her tribute to his legacy. And when Cosette, in grieving, went to put flowers on his grave and don the black crepe Eponine could proudly laugh at her and spit on the little lark with impunity. She would have the final say where Marius was concerned.
