It was not easy to forget the way blood splattered. Nor was it easy to forget how fast a body could fall, or how quickly a soul could seep out through a bullet hole. There were many thoughts that ran through Enjolras' mind as he stood defiantly behind a billiard-table, waiting for the soldiers to make their clumsy way up to him. He thought of the men who had fallen outside, and who were slumped on the floor before him. He thought of his skin, and the irony of how he, out of everyone, was the only man left who had not yet tasted the acrid metal of a bullet. For a brief second he thought of how even though his love for Patria and the republic was the strongest emotion he would ever know, he would still have liked to know the feel of a woman's lips, if only for a teasing glimpse of normalcy. Mostly he thought of how grateful he was that death was so near, so he would not have to remember or try to forget.
A soldier's head poked through the stairwell, and all thoughts fled his mind as Enjolras' right hand clenched the blood-red flag that tiredly trailed on the ground around him. The heavy-booted men quickly filled the little room. Guns were raised at him and one soldier said with the voice of well-oiled leather,
"He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot." A cold fist clutched at Enjolras' heart, but he gave no appearance of fear. Skilling his face into a mask of indifference, he dropped the broken gun-barrel and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Shoot me." He stated, and he bared his chest as a slight thrill of pride coursed through him at the steady courage found in his voice. The soldiers stared at him from across the room, respect evident in their eyes.
"It seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower." One at the front said reverently. A voice spoke up at the back of group near the stairs.
"Then do not shoot at all." A tall man walked forward, a sergeant as evidenced from his uniform. "We have been given orders to take a revolutionary into custody. The crown wants to provide the people with an example as to what occurs to those who resist the law. This man is the last, and the leader as well. He will do."
The inklings of fear had ebbed at his heart, but as Enjolras listened to the words of the Sergeant true terror gripped him.
"No." He cried out, his hand absent-mindedly dropping the flag as he backed further against the wall. "Shoot me. Shoot me now!" He knew he would not be able to live past the barricade, whether his heart continued to beat or not. A clatter broke his cries and joy lit his face like a flash of lightning before horror rose up once again.
"Long live the Republic! I am one of them." Grantaire shouted as he pushed his way through the throng of soldiers to stand next to Enjolras, the smell of alcohol still heavy on his breath and clothes. "Long live the Republic!" The sergeant looked between the two young men stood before him, until at last he turned his gaze back to Enjolras. Meeting his eyes he stated,
"Take the blonde. Shoot the drunk."
The soldiers moved forward, some stepping up to drag Enjolras away, and one other raising a gun to Grantaire's head.
"No! Shoot me! Kill me, instead!" Enjolras screamed, struggling against the strong grasps of the soldiers. He watched in heartbroken terror as Grantaire bent down and picked up the fallen red flag.
"Vive la France!" He stated passionately, raising the flag high in his hand. His eye caught Enjolras' before moving past to look at the ceiling and sky beyond.
No, it was not easy to forget the way blood splattered.
Hi! Sorry about taking a little longer to get this chapter up. I went back to college this week so things have been a bit hectic. Thank you so much for the reviews and for generally being incredibly nice!
Just so you all know, everything that is bolded in the story is dialogue taken directly from Les Miserables.
Thank you so much for reading!