Author's note:
I have little to say - I'm just stunned and relieved and rather overjoyed that I have finally finished this. The ending is liable to be subjected to spontaneous change whenever I become too disgusted with the way it is at present. It shouldn't ever change in spirit - I simply happen to hate it as it is, but I see no way of reworking it right now. When I acquire more taste, I'll get back to you.
Chapter 5: The Flame Dies
But by the time the pulsating rim of the sun had finally separated completely from the browned horizon, the echoes too were dying out. The morning crept relentlessly up and the Guard burst through the barricades, hacking through staunch clumps of defenders who stood unflinchingly until cut down like wheat, water in their hair and fire in their eyes.
The last desperate clap of answering thunder came from the rebels around noon. The Corinth's rickety spiral staircase was dislodged and thrown to the floor of the lower room in a billow of dust and flying splinters. The Guard, finally pushing aside the shattered remnants of the wineshop's door and weaving past the remaining furniture, was beset with whatever scanty ammunition the rebels above could lay their hands on. The attackers scrambled for the hole where the staircase had been, stepping on one another in their frenzied haste, drawing swords and shouting unintelligibly. They clambered over their fellows, clawed up the walls, caught the edge of the floor above, were repulsed, fell back, and were promptly swarmed over by the next wave of men.
The wineshop's defenders leaned over the gaping hole and fought tooth and nail. The cartridges ran out; they used table legs, bottles, their bare hands. One by one they fell to volleys of musket fire or slices of steel. The Guard thrust collectively upwards, flung back its opponents on sword-edges, crawled through the gap in the second story floor, and caught its breath as it looked round at this last bastion of the emeuté.
Grantaire shifted after over twelve hours of deathlike stillness. As consciousness filtered back to him in maddeningly elusive, muzzy shafts, he became increasingly aware of the fact that he was most uncomfortably situated here, bent at a sharp angle over the jutting edge of his table with his face among a mess of empty bottles and jugs. Still, he felt no inclination to move, but was satisfied to stay slumped where he was, endeavoring to puzzle out why such an all-pervading, almost unearthly shroud of silence seemed to have descended on this room.
" -wish your eyes bandaged?"
This was something new to consider. Someone was asking a question. Of him?
Perhaps not. For another voice replied, in clear and steady tones, "No."
That voice stirred something in Grantaire, and he struggled to ascertain what it was. Another question was asked, and this time the voice said, "Yes."
A click echoed from across the room - muskets being loaded, Grantaire surmised detachedly. He recognized the voice in the next moment, and a dark, nameless terror clutched at him, caught and gathered in a cold inert lump at the back of his throat. He raised his head slowly.
Enjolras stood further off near the other back corner of the room, facing the opposite wall with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. The stump of a carbine rolled away from him and gently bumped the leg of the table.
Grantaire tore his eyes away and looked out across the room. Beyond the billiard table stood a firing squad, muskets cocked, faces intent on the lone man standing before them.
And suddenly comprehension sliced its searing way through Grantaire's skull. In an instant, the scene and all its nuances unfolded for him with perfect clarity. The dropped carbine. The broken floor. A single Guardsman standing off from his fellows with musket hanging, staring perplexedly at the target. And, most powerfully, Enjolras gazing fixedly at a point on the wall somewhere above the heads of the firing squad - erect, motionless, silent.
Yet - still more. Without having witnessed a moment of the preceding battle, and without possession of any unexpected clairvoyance, Grantaire knew what had gone before.
Feuilly carving his impromptu message to future generations in the back wall of the wineshop; Jehan leading Les Amis in the reciting of a love poem even as the foreboding shadows of twilight closed in; Joly drawing a lighthearted lesson on creation from the presence of a cat; Combeferre discussing, of all absurd things, poetry translations mere hours before the fall of the barricades; Bossuet and Courfeyrac taunting cannons; Enjolras, trembling yet unrelenting, a terrible glint of passionate and sorrowful fury in his eyes, gunning down a young blond artilleryman. Inexorable, the half-realized images continued: Bahorel falling helplessly in an early attack, expiring swiftly and silently as runnels of blood blended with his crimson waistcoat; Gavroche choking on musket fire even as he finished his final impertinent song; M. Mabeuf toppling from the barricade, arms flung out to grasp something intangible as the flag fluttered above with the whistling grapeshot; timid Jehan crying out forcefully in the name of the Republic before the Guard shot him point-blank; Combeferre, stumbling and murmuring ever so softly, bayoneted as he staggered beneath the weight of a wounded man; Feuilly breaking from his position to hurl himself into the midst of a group of Guardsmen, only the sheared-off handle of a saber in his hand, bellowing "Poland" as he died atop the bodies of those he had slain; Bossuet and Joly being beaten back from their posts on the main barricade and stabbed by a multitude of eager swords; Courfeyrac hurling one last insult at the cannons before they hurled their own deadly barrage into his battle station.
Grantaire shuddered, not truly aware of any one of these specific instances but knowing full well that all of these men were gone, flung impersonally aside in the blood and the rubble and the rising smoke and dust. The course of this entire revelation spanned only a few seconds.
Enjolras, taut and alert, battle-rage still pounding in his ears, perceived Grantaire's slight movement and slid him a narrow glance out of the corner of his eye. That look said everything; no words could possibly have expressed the utter disdain in the curve of Enjolras's jaw, the flash of his profound gaze. Very plainly, it said, "Don't get up. Stay still, they won't notice you if you don't move. Might as well go back to your coma, because you have no business here. I will not have you sully my insurrection by getting yourself killed in it."
The simple force of that glance caused Grantaire to waver. There really was nothing he could do. He hardly knew, and certainly didn't care, what this man was fighting for. And then there was the drink, still clouding the ragged edges of his brain, a darkness that touched him familiarly on the shoulder and whispered, sleep now you dont mind do you no of course not youd rather lie back down and pretend its nothing better that way dont you agree? His head hurt and his vision was swimming, and he wanted to say something - but there was Enjolras forbidding it with his eyes and the echoes of the lost Bossuet crying "Silence, capital R!"
His aching head was still up, but he was feeling that perhaps it should go back down. He looked slowly back to the firing squad, which was waiting for another order to take aim, and again he saw the young man standing apart and watching Enjolras with something like awe, dropping his gun and muttering it would be like shooting a flower. Something in the other's expression pulled at Grantaire, drew him closer and burrowed deep within him, touched chords he had not been aware of for a long time. Damn the Republic, he thought, and the next moment he was on his feet.
"Vive la République!" I really don't care, he insisted gently to himself, but "Count me in!"
The sergeant at the front of the squad glanced over, and the faces of the other men turned to him a moment later, as if they were all somehow wired to their leader's head. Enjolras, his eyes dark and stormy, compressed his lips and looked to the wall once more.
Grantaire sighed softly, forcing himself not to look beseechingly after Enjolras. He trembled for a fraction of a second, and thought, I could run, jump through that hole. Or sit back down and let them shoot me off the chair.
But that wouldn't help now. He swallowed hard and tensed his shoulders. If they would only hold their fire until he reached Enjolras-
He took a step, held his breath, looked to the sergeant and repeated himself. The other man was still, his face unreadable. Grantaire nodded to him politely, thanking him for his patience, and then crossed the floor swiftly, feeling his fingers clench and his eyes burn in a surge of adrenaline.
He halted at Enjolras's side and faced the squad. Unconsciously, he positioned himself further forward, as if to interpose his body between Enjolras and the imminent bullets. Too late for second thoughts now, R.
"Two at one shot," he told the sergeant, smiling slightly. Make your job easier, boy.
He steeled himself, holding his hands tightly at his sides, resisting the foolish urge to clutch at Enjolras's sleeve, trying to quell the pangs of terror rising in his chest and threatening to be expressed in his eyes. He pressed his lips together once more, then turned slightly to look at Enjolras.
"Will you permit it?" His eyes were bright now, tremulous, yet he fought to keep at least a hint of tranquility and resignation in them. Concentrating on keeping his voice from betraying him, he hardly thought of what he said, and could not help but utter this phrase; he winced as he realized how desperate he sounded, how servile. To compensate, he tried harder to steady to steady his tone, and a hint of what was almost sarcasm entered his voice, reminding Enjolras that he knew very well how pathetic he was, that he had never expected anything but scorn.
Enjolras tilted his head slightly at Grantaire's voice, and, after a time, looked over. He studied the other man for a while, chewing his lip in sudden pensiveness. Then, seemingly without warning, his hand was hanging in the air between them.
Grantaire looked at it, slender and pale and well formed, and could not repress a shudder of- what? Fear? Awe? Relief? He wasn't quite sure. He took it in his own massive, blunt hand, and only then dared to look up at Enjolras.
A flicker of satisfaction passed over Enjolras's face, and he smiled at Grantaire.
Grantaire, never having been on the receiving end of this spontaneous, warm, surprisingly amiable expression - an expression that all at once smoothed the severe angles of the face it wreathed and thawed the ice in the blue eyes - went weak at the knees; nearly fell. A rush of joy coursed through him as he blinked, light-headed, and shook the hand.
But the smile had barely traversed the short distance between them when Grantaire was suddenly thrown backwards by an unknown force. There was a WHUMP as multiple somethings thudded into his body, and the breath was knocked cleanly from him.
There was no pain at first. He had time, as he toppled, to see Enjolras turn away at the sharp report, face the opposite wall again, a smile on his lips. Then Grantaire was on the floor, wondering, for a moment, what had happened - and he looked up slightly and saw his own blood. The fear nearly overwhelmed him for a moment, but then he cast his eyes further up and saw Enjolras standing over him, smiling, against the wall. And all was well.
Grantaire saw, in muted colors, the ceiling above him, and then came to notice that Enjolras was very still, that he no longer stared at a fixed point above the Guardsmen. His head was canted a bit downward, and his wide eyes gazed across the room as if there was no squad, no wall - as if there was only a great open stretch of land as far as the horizon.
There was blood there too, trickling sluggishly down Enjolras's chest. Grantaire let himself sink completely to the ground, keeping his gaze fixed on the pale, serene oval of Enjolras's face as the darkness came tumbling down.
The Guardsmen dispersed in various directions, seeking out the last stalwart insurgents holed up in whatever spaces they could find.
Upstairs, men hacked through already splintering wooden doors, leapt savagely into desperate combat, scrambled out across the roof.
Downstairs, men rushed through the cellars, upending barrels and ferreting out hiding rebels from behind piled crates, wading through spilt blood and wine.
And on the second floor, under the waning bars of fickle sunlight, a man found that sleeping against the scuffed, warm shoes of another flesh and blood being was infinitely more satisfying than sleeping by the goldenly untouchable sandals of a god.
FINIS