You know, I could not run away.
It seemed we'd seen each other in a dream;
Seemed like he knew me, he looked right through me.
– HEART, "Magic Man"
For a moment, Grantaire was perfectly still, hunched up against the wall. Then, as a single pistol shot rang in his ears, he remembered a roaring pain, a blow that was heavy enough to send him reeling forward and darken his world forever.
Oh God . . . please, no . . .
The crow watched the boy carefully. So the penny finally drops, it thought.
Grantaire closed his eyes and swallowed, fighting the nausea that was churning through his stomach. He wanted to believe that none of this was real, but this last memory was too vivid. The last piece fell into a macabre little jigsaw puzzle he didn't want to even think about.
It wasn't just them. I died too.
That darkness that I woke up in. That was . . .
That was . . .
OH GOD!!!!!!!
But the cry was futile. There wasn't a God after all, was there? If there had been, surely He could have given a careless wave of His almighty hand and stopped all this from happening, deflected those twelve musket balls from their predestined target, or even put all of his friends anywhere else in the world apart from the Corinth on the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the morning of June 6. If there was a God, then why was he standing here now, after he had just so clearly remembered an officer in a blue uniform shooting him in the head and his skull exploding and his brains spattering across the wall and his face being shattered beyond repair or recognition? Why did he remember the way his soul was suddenly ripped out of its cradle of meat and bone, the way his shattered body collapsed heavily across the floor like a great, clumsy marionette?
With trembling hands, Grantaire brought his hands up to touch his face. It was there, just as he remembered it. The bushy eyebrows, the large nose, the prominent chin. The hands travelled down to his heaving chest beneath the coat. His heart still pumped away in its cage of bone and muscle. All of this had been destroyed in a single second, with a single thought. But now everything was as it was before, and he did not understand.
There was one thing he understood though – he was here alone.
The tears began to fall again, as all the events of the past few hours began making hideous sense. Some unknown force had called him out of the abyss and he had followed it to this place. He had been made to remember his friends and bear witness to their suffering. The life he had treasured more than his own had been carelessly blown away, and he had been forced to watch it all.
boy
With catlike quickness, his head whipped around. The bird was perched on the back of a chair quite close to him, and now it cawed and looked straight into his eyes.
i am so so sorry
"LIKE HELL YOU ARE!!!" Grantaire shrieked, bearing down upon it. It eluded him easily with a startled squawk, and Grantaire's hands slammed down against the back of the chair, knocking it over. "Fuck you!" he sobbed. "Fuck you! Why did you make me remember all that? WHY THE HELL DID YOU MAKE ME REMEMBER THAT?????"
you had to it was necessary so you could complete what you are here to do
"What are you talking about?"
believe it or not, you were brought here for a reason and
Grantaire spotted another empty bottle, rolling about on the floor near the chair. He picked it up, and without really thinking, hurled it across the room against the wall where the torn map hung. It shattered, and tiny shards of glass flew in all directions. That was what had happened to his friends, to Enjolras, to himself. He wished for that pain again, anything to stop him remembering.
He didn't want to listen to the crow anymore. He didn't want any part in this dark little game. All he wanted was . . . he wasn't sure what. To be at peace again. To feel how he had felt when he stood beside Enjolras and held his hand in his, and saw those eyes filled with friendship.
you won't be able to have that until you fulfil your mission down here
"I'm beginning to notice that you speak on one theme only, bird."
that is what i am here to do help you with this
Grantaire looked up at it. His eyes still streamed with tears, but there was a hate burning behind them the bird had not seen before. That hate was good, that hate was pure, and he was certainly going to need it. But right now it was focused on the wrong target.
"You know what?" Grantaire said, "I don't want a part of this. I don't know what you did to me, but I want you to undo it right now. Whatever 'task' or 'mission' you think I'm supposed to accomplish, I'm probably incapable of doing it. Anybody could tell you that." His bottom lip quivered. "Why didn't you bring Enjolras back? He would've been your man."
i was told to bring you
"Oh, I see, so I don't get a choice in the matter, do I?"
do you really want me to answer that
"All right then, why me?" Grantaire then shook his head vigorously, wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and took a step back. "On second thought, don't answer that. Don't say anything. I don't want to know."
enjolras needs you
"I SAID SHUT UP!"
listen
"NO!!!"
Grantaire continued backing away from the bird, trying to gain at least a little control of himself. But that wasn't going to happen. As long as he was in this room, he would never be at peace. This room was a reminder of what his friends once were, and would never be again.
I need to get away from here . . .
With that, Grantaire turned about and fled from the back room of the Café Musain.
The crow watched him go, and sighed inwardly before spreading its wings and flapping out the door after him. This was going to be a very, very long haul indeed.
The rain appeared to have stopped some time ago. Some of the clouds had parted, leaving patches of stars and clear black sky here and there. Again Grantaire ran through the small streets of Paris, but no voice guided him this time. He concentrated as hard as he could on the simple act of running – first one foot and then the other – but hardly looked up from the ground. Pure luck prevented him from running smack into a wall or tripping off a footbridge and falling into the River Seine.
Every time he stopped concentrating on the immediate task at hand, or tried to lift his eyes up from the stones below him, he saw Enjolras' dead face and felt a warm strong hand suddenly grow slack and limp in his. Once he saw that, the only image strong enough to combat it was a memory of Enjolras as he was when alive – but that was just as bad, if not even worse.
Flashing eyes, a voice that brooked no opposition, a habit of pacing about restlessly as he spoke, formulating a speech as he made it. He would drink strong black coffee or even plain water whilst everybody else was drinking wine. Late nights at the Café Musain, bent over his favoured table in the back corner, poring over sheets and notes and newspapers. Blond hair that glowed like a halo by sun or lamplight, and the slight look of annoyance in his face as he flicked stray wisps of it out of the way mid-conversation. He hardly seemed aware of the admiring gazes women gave him in the street, and regarded all the fairer sex with the cool gaze he gave to strangers. Firm tread, firm handshake, the embodiment of conviction sculpted in marble, a strength and grace that Grantaire could only dream of possessing himself.
"You know I believe in you," he whispered aloud.
And then they had taken it all away.
Finally Grantaire could run no further. As he leaned against the damp stone wall, panting, teeth gritted against images that refused to recede, he decided that this was possibly a safe enough distance from the Café Musain and its room of memories. He was standing near the mouth of an alleyway, the far end of which was swallowed by shadows. This close to the street lamp, though, he could see both up and down the street for well over twenty yards.
There must be a tavern down the way, for he could see bright lights and flickering silhouettes and merry voices. That was enough to make him feel physically ill – how could the world carry on regardless after what had happened? Was anybody in Paris even vaguely aware that a poor shadow of a Lazarus walked amongst them that night, called forth from the grave not by a Christ but by a crow?
Come to think of it, where was that crow? He was surprised that he had managed to outrun it. Vaguely pleased with himself, he nonetheless wondered what was going to happen now.
Two nearby voices caused him to shrink back into the alleyway. He wasn't sure why he did so – but something warned him that he was not welcome in this world, and that its mortal denizens should have little to do with him.
Male voices. Slurred speech, and high hysterical laughter. Obviously two men coming down the street from the tavern. He stepped forward and squinted into the gloom for a closer look.
Two men in greatcoats staggered down the dark street, their arms thrown about each other's shoulders. They were happy as only drunks can be, wrapped up safely in the cocoon of their alcoholic haze and thus invincible against the pressures and worries of this present world. Grantaire remembered that sort of happiness.
As the men drew closer within the circle of the street lamp's light, their faces became visible. One was much taller than the other, with a lean aristocratic build. His companion said something and he laughed, and there was something terribly familiar about that laugh. Half-curious, and desperate for distraction, Grantaire drew close. Neither of the men were aware of his presence.
The taller man turned and said something to his comrade. As Grantaire saw his profile clearly, he stopped dead in his tracks.
For one terrible moment, he thought it was Enjolras.
Of course it wasn't.
The man had Enjolras' long fair hair, perfect nose and blue eyes. But somehow, this man was also very different. His smile was broad and lazy in a way Enjolras could never emulate, and the wild glitter in his eyes was a million miles away from Enjolras' icy fire. Even their style of bearing was different. Enjolras would have forever been marked out as a man of noble birth, but he would never have slouched as arrogantly as this man did. If one put both men side by side, the physical resemblance would be remarkable, but one would easily be able to pick out the better of the two.
Then he did remember who this man was, and understood why he had been drawn by his voice in the first place.
"Present arms!"
Surely it could not be . . .
But it was.
Almost not understanding why, he began to follow the two men down the street, careful to remain behind them and hidden by the shadows. All of a sudden, he felt like some sort of hunter.
where the hell are you
The crow was now completely annoyed, both at itself and the boy. It wouldn't have lost him when it was so close behind, but a gust of wind had hit it as soon as it flew out the door of the Café Musain and set it rolling completely off course. By the time it had recovered itself, there was no sign of its charge anywhere. Scanning the streets below it was offering no real help – from this height and at this time of night, most men looked alike as they scampered about on the ground. The crow closed its eyes and ears to all the sensory information assailing it, and listened to the quiet little rhythm of its own heart. Whilst engaged in this operation a strange power would protect it from such obstacles as brick walls or lampposts, as it focused on a much more important task.
where are you boy
There he was! Faintly, very faintly, the crow could sense the boy's presence as a burning pulse of rage echoing its own heartbeat. This wasn't entirely right – it shouldn't be throbbing quite that hard and fast at this stage – but it was a blessing nonetheless. If it focused on that alone, it would be able to find its charge. Hopefully before he did something stupid.
Grantaire stayed back and watched as the prey and its companion approached a plump woman in a low-cut gown of some vile purple hue. If he had strained his ears he would have been able to understand their conversation but he chose not to. The high giggling and the drunken camaraderie began to sound like the yips and growls of a couple of stray dogs, and he preferred it to stay this way. For this man was a dog and nothing more. Grantaire remembered the look of stupid savage anticipation in his eyes as he prepared to order for Enjolras' execution. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm even though he was naked under the long coat. A strange buzzing had started up behind his temples and would not go away.
The sergeant's companion wrapped an arm around the streetwalker's waist, and the two of them continued walking down the street, leaving the other man behind. Obviously they had decided to part company for the night. What did that mean the sergeant would do? Tottering slightly, he turned slowly about and squinted up at the lamp.
Grantaire remained where he was, watching the man with dry-eyed loathing. When he looked at his man, he felt things he had never really felt before. Hatred. Anger. All right, he had felt those things before he died, but now everything was different. Stronger. Purer. Deeper. It was as if he had carried something from beyond the grave, and only now as he looked at the sergeant standing alone on the street, had it started to make its presence felt, coursing through his veins like morphine.
there you are boy
Startled by the reappearance of the voice, he looked up. He saw the faint outline of the crow's silhouette against the sky, before its wings folded and it descended towards him
Already descended into the dive, the crow realised that something was very wrong. It had tracked the boy by following the throbbing rage beating through his resurrected veins and now realised its source – one of the men who had partaken in his friend's death that day. But this was very wrong. Surely the boy could sense that – that this was not what he was brought back to do. Perhaps it could still talk the boy out of this situation before he did something he would regret. Right now, that did not look very likely. The crow could sense the burning anger behind the boy's taut stony glare, and hoped that his intended victim did too. Because maybe he would then flee, not giving the boy a chance to act.
It landed on a window ledge above, and looked down at the boy and the sergeant. The boy said something and stepped out into the light. The sergeant turned to look at him. Ex-sergeant, really. If the boy cared to know, the man had retired from the National Guard in 1835.
what do you think you're doing
Stay out of this, Grantaire thought furiously, you've caused enough trouble. Just stay out of this. He continued walking towards the fair-haired man, who looked at him with a slightly stupid expression of surprise on his face.
"Yesh . . . What . . . What is it, m'sieur?" the man slurred.
Grantaire said nothing. What was there to say?
no
That was the crow, and there was alarm in its voice. It was becoming difficult to hear now, the buzz in Grantaire's head was growing to become a roar, and all he could see was the drunken man standing in front of him.
this is none of your concern this man should mean nothing to you less than nothing walk away from this now and leave him here
What was the crow talking about? How could this man mean nothing when he had taken away the most precious thing in the world? Grantaire stopped perhaps two feet away from the man. He was close enough to see the stubble on his thin cheeks, the red rings around his eyes. He could smell the alcohol and blue tobacco smoke on his breath, and again his stomach turned. This man positively reeked of life, and that was suddenly an offence in the eyes of God. Besides, it wasn't as though he was going to do any real harm, was it? He just wanted to touch this man, to see what he had seen on that terrible day. See what the world looked like through the eyes of a man who did not deserve to live.
that is not your decision grantaire
The man took a step back, sensing through the brandy-induced fog that something was not quite right. "Woss up with . . ."
"Just don't say anything."
keep away from this man grantaire i know what you are going to do and it will only go badly for you keep away and whatever you do don't look
You can shut up, too, Grantaire thought, as he grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. The man gave a muffled yelp, but was far too drunk to provide anything more constructive.
Although the sergeant was a good head or so taller than Grantaire, Grantaire had the advantage of weight. Struggling, the sergeant carried his own momentum as Grantaire pushed him into the alleyway and shoved him down against the wall. He wrapped one hand around the man's throat, the only certain way of keeping him quiet and keeping him still.
Time to see what's inside.
With his other hand, he reached towards the man's face. The crow flew off the window-ledge and perched on a broken wooden crate perhaps a yard away from the two men. It cawed again, harsh and shrill.
no grantaire you'll regret this
But there was no questioning the deadly fire now burning in the boy's eyes as his hand fell down upon the man's face, and the power he'd carried with him surged into its full strength.
don't look grantaire don't look don't look don't look don't look
But Grantaire looked.
And the crow was right. He would wish with all his heart that he had not.