The last letter was quite a mess, R. I'm sorry. You must have had some trouble following.
I have my emotions in somewhat of a check; Marius was of great help. He has dealt with such emotions of regret and…heartache before; albeit, it was concerning his father, not a dear friend.
Friend? No, R, that doesn't fit, does it? I can hear your chortle now. Or have I hurt you once again? Are you silent, sober, alone, like that night? R, that night is my fondest of memories now. Please, I hope that the retrospect of the afterlife has allowed some forgiveness. The retrospect of achieved dreams has certainly allowed the aforementioned regret.
Today, I buried you. Perhaps that's why I decided to write another letter.
You see, R, despite the destruction of the pageantry and pomp of monarchy, I have still many public responsibilities that are purely for show. You roll your eyes, I know. But they are more of the morale-booster practices: speeches, vigils, the like. Because the people did mourn you, all of you, and needed closure (although I suspect guilty conscience more than anything). They needed to hear your names called out in memory, and they needed to hear the story of how you died for them, for me, for Patria. They needed to be able to go home, tuck themselves into their sheets, and say, "What heroes they were, to die so young."
All of these lead up to the burial of Les Amis. Marius led the service. I commended each of you, promised that you would be remembered in the new government, shed a few tears, and left with Marius to ride in the coach to your burials.
We wouldn't let anyone else bury les amis de l'ABC. Grantaire, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Feuilly, Joly, Bahorel, Laigle; all were left to Marius and me. Little Gavroche and Eponine were layed side-by-side, but don't worry, you are close.
As I watched you lowered into the ground, R, I felt my soul give a final shudder. I thought it had left me numb, your death, but I feel its effects every day. And I suddenly called for the undertaker to halt. I unlidded your coffin and I took the flask I knew you had on you, the one on your right hip. I'm sorry, but I think I might need it a little more than you do at the moment.
I plan to leave this letter at your grave. The last I placed where your flask had been, so you would have time to catch up. The flask smells of you: alcohol and sweat and oil. I fill it daily to drown out the gunshots that ricochet through my mind every morning when I awaken, to sober me to the fact that you won't be attending the meetings now, that the meetings are for completely different people and a completely different country. I drink to try and see if, maybe, I can place myself in your state of mind, bring myself closer to you; I really should have taken your skepticism more into account. These damn people don't even try to understand.
Look there, R; you finally got me to drinking.
-E
