It had not been a restful night. Guns were checked and rechecked by
their current owners. New cartridges were fabricated from what could be
found in the Corinth. Men sat or paced throughout the dark courtyard
created by the barricade. And then there were the dead, who lay quietly in
their fate, unable to voice discomfort or fear-not that any of the living
were about to mention either malady. For what hope could they hold onto?
Half of them had come with the intention of fighting to the death in
service of their ideals, the other half without such grand plans, but
perhaps an even grimmer resolution. For the young believe themselves
invincible, and the older know just how mortal they are. But there has
never been a clear definition between young and old.
Dawn approached and light rose into crimson backdrop around the buildings surrounding the barricade. The torch was put out.
"I'm delighted that the torch is out," said Courfeyrac to Feuilly. "That torch, shuddering in the wind, annoyed me. It seemed afraid. The light of a torch is like the wisdom of a coward; it's not clear, because it trembles."
Feuilly let himself grin slightly at this remark of his friend's, although he knew Courfeyrac would never see his smile, not in this light. For the dark was more prominent than at any other dawn he had ever known to rise above night. "Remarkably metaphorical during these fine witching hours, aren't we?" he murmured in response.
"It's far past the witching hour, Feuilly," Courfeyrac replied in quiet grimness. "We're falling into daylight, blind bats who napped too long in the night and find themselves alone and burning when day creeps upon them."
Feuilly turned to the black shape that was Courfeyrac. "And you're switching radically between moods," he remarked. "Something wrong?" /What a rhetorical question./ the fan maker mused.
"Oh no, of course not," the other responded in horrible, mocking resemblance to his usual cheery tone. "Life treads along its weary road as it ever has. But it rained last night, and the ditches which one trips into are full of mud that clings and sucks the soul."
Feuilly stared at him hard. "You're starting to sound like Grantaire, what with all your metaphorical pessimism. Perhaps I should wake him so he will finally have someone to spar with his verbal weapons of inanity?"
Courfeyrac laughed slightly, "I don't know if either combatant would appreciate that. But no matter, it will make no difference in a matter of hours." His laughter trailed off into what sounded almost like a sob.
But all his Feuilly could bring himself to do was stare open mouthed at the formerly rambunctious student. Courfeyrac had always been there for him, he knew. Always ready for with a joke to lighten the mood or an extra hand when you were down on your knees without an apartment or a coat. And now he had voiced the one thought that everyone shared. The one-way ticket to doom that everyone buried in the crevices of their minds, hoping that it would be forgotten before they found themselves once again in a living hell.
"He's dead." Courfeyrac moaned softly. "You loved him too, Feuilly- he's gone, and so we will be when the light rises far enough. Like the dew on the morning grass-either dried into nothing by the sun or spattered into what barely resembles water by so many feet."
And now he understood.
Jean Prouvaire. Lovingly called Jehan. Oh, so lovingly.
"And I feel as that torch, that guttering light, strong when out of the wind of grief but trembling as a coward when confronted with death and pain!" and all this was no more than a whisper. Courfeyrac, that black shape, seized Feuilly's shoulder and shook him gently, "We will not survive this day-and I am afraid. I cannot tell anyone else-what would they think?? Courfeyrac, that rascal, that lively man, doubting his own success? They would lose any hope they have managed to retain this long, dreadful night. See that light above the buildings? Red as blood. Red is not the world dawning. It is blood rising." He laughed softly at himself, "The blood of angry men. And desperate men."
Feuilly could not bring himself to shake off his friend. Not now. Because they had both loved their poet. Sweet, good Jehan; reading his poetry, searching for the soul and the good of the world, and never failing to argue for humanity when someone tried to refute its morals. But he was dead. And so they would be as well, just as Courfeyrac had wept to him, like a crazed oracle of Delphi. "And so you speak in distant metaphor?" he whispered in return, careful not to attract attention. "A cynical dirge of repentance?"
Courfeyrac looked up at him, still clutching Feuilly's old, threadbare coat, his eyes catching the not-quite light of near-dawn. But they did not shine as they once had. They did not contain the glow of revolution as they had in the café Musain. Now they reflected the light, as a tide pool about to be swept out to sea reflects the sun, but does not see it.
"Courfeyrac, dearest friend," Feuilly placed a hand on his shoulder as well. It was like touching a corpse. "Death is not yours to repent. It was not of your design. But you don't have to fear it either. I will not tell anyone if you leave now. It would be good if one of us could survive to further our ideals-to finally bring the Republic to life. For what can we possibly accomplish if we all die here? We'll make our point, surely, but who will be left to care?"
Courfeyrac released his coat and recoiled slightly. "I will not leave you here," he choked. "Send someone else on your errand for the future. All that matters to me is in this barricade. And if I must die in fear, so be it. I will not die quietly in my bed after the rest of you commit suicide for your ideals."
Feuilly couldn't help but smile slightly. /You remain to die in fear? Then it is not fear, mon ami./ He dropped his hand from Courfeyrac's shoulder to rest it on his hand. "I'll admit-it's rather morbid. No hope for survival after high noon? Then why don't we admire this last sunrise?"
He would never know, but Courfeyrac smile in response. "To be picked off by a sniper? No. I will remain here until the thick of the fight returns. As a patient moth, waiting for the burning light which signifies its doom. For the Republic."
"And."
"And Jehan."
The dawn awakens minds as well as birds; everyone was chatting.
Seeing a cat prowling around a waterspout, Joly extracted some philosophy from it.
"What is the cat?" he exclaimed. "It is a corrective. God, having made the mouse, said, 'I've made a blunder.' And he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse, plus the cat, is the revised proof of creation."
Joly sat on his barrel, musing quietly at the cat and doing his best to ignore the red tinge about the buildings, concentrating on the white- blue of the sky. It promised to be a beautiful day. The most beautiful day, kept away by the great hideous beast of a barricade surrounding the Corinth. He'd come into the final battle drunk-gone through half of it with a raging hangover, and now he sat, finally ready for the end. For it would be the end, wouldn't it? Battles, skirmishes, and melees would rage, but yesterday's twilight had in all likelihood been his last.
"For the Republic." he tried to reassure himself quietly, eyes focused on the sky. Oh the sky. Only just emerging into day. He wished he could truly appreciate it, out in the open instead of through this narrow triangle between buildings. There were so few clouds.
He felt a body set down beside him and looked up, expecting to find another revolutionary who'd finally admitted to himself that his arm really wasn't 'just bleeding a bit'. Instead, a smiling face greeted him, its lips curled in the slightest of smiles that it was so fond of falling into. "Good almost morning," Bossuet said.
"I expect it will be breath-taking," Joly replied. "Even more so if we could manage to catch sight of the sun itself. Just imagine what light it would spread across this sky-so clear seeming as it is. I never expected it to be so fair after yesterday and all that rain. What a relief that I don't need an umbrella to be out here, in case of burning. I would hate to be inside. now, that is.because of all the." he trailed off, realizing that he hadn't given the still smiling Bossuet a chance to speak.
Bossuet chuckled softly and leaned back on the wall supporting the overturned barrel. "I heard you musing about our feline friend," he commented non-chalantly. If anyone had happened to listen to their exchange without being aware of their location, it would have sounded like the small talk between friends, shared at an out of the way café, far away from the rush and screech of most Paris streets. But they were alone in their quiet conversation. "So." he continued, "Which one of us the mouse?" the closely watching observer would have noticed how close the two were sitting to each other, or how their hands were touching, but not quite holding.
A soft laugh followed his dry question, "Oh, Bossuet. Could I ever call you an error?"
The Eagle's hand brushed over Joly's, resting on it lightly, "What a clever mouse then, to have trapped the cat."
Silence followed, and the now loosely defined shapes that were the people of the barricade had barely visible faces. Joly leaned closer to Bossuet and almost too softly to be heard whispered, "I love you, you know."
The words would have been ruined by a response of 'I know' or 'I love you too', and so in typical Bossuet fashion, he flew into a spiraling discourse in response, "Such a confirmation between two people seems to be the only way of knowing anything these days. What is verbal or written is so much more tangible and believable than flighty ideals and as of yet non- existent government systems. But a shared feeling of mutual affection, affection so strong so as to be called love. It is not always the need to be confirmed in a world of uncertainties that drives us to pronounce such commitment-it is at times the deep passion of true love that propels declarations of such feeling. This deep passion threatens to drive us insane with its fervor if we don't speak of it every once in a while." He looked straight at his friend and lover. "So you will forgive me, cher Joly, if I must resort to such elaborate means when I wish to let you know how much I love you in return."
Joly felt himself about to blush. He was glad of the dark because Bossuet would never know, though he in all likelihood knew exactly what he was doing to the hypochondriac's pulse rate. All the same, he reveled in the moment. /The Republic. For the Republic./ He tried to remind himself. But when he died, what would it matter? How much closer to equality, liberty and fraternity would they be? All right, so the fraternity part was already ensured, but.
"And what exactly is it that's driving you to such ill health this time, cher?" the Eagle asked.
But it wouldn't be fair to share his doubts with Bossuet. No, it wasn't fair to the Republic itself to doubt it for a single second. It wasn't fair to query the logic of dying on the barricade, where no one would care the next morning. But how could the people ignore the statement made by blood? Quite easily, he knew. So many died by violence everyday, what would the difference be if on the sixth of June they died for their ideals? No one would notice in a few years, when the red stains finally washed away from the stones. "The Republic," was all he could whisper, his eyes turned away towards the ground.
"Will come eventually," Bossuet replied, as if reading his mind. Reading his mind. Joly suddenly felt guilty for all the secret doubts that somehow lodged themselves in the darkest corners of his heart. "Even if we are not the soldiers to herald it, the people will free themselves. We fight for their eventual realization today." The Eagle had seamlessly made the transition from lover to fellow revolutionist in seconds. "The people are the only things that can break their chains. Only their desire will be able to bridge the final obstacle to the Republic."
"But." Joly bit his lip, unsure if he should continue his thoughts aloud. But deep passion requires lengthy admissions, as Bossuet himself had said only moments before. "We shouldn't-no one should-you shouldn't die today!" he blurted out. "You should go and live and thrive and revive the ideals. Send the Republic our way ever faster-I would go straight to the bowels of hell and endure the fate of Sisyphus if I knew you would survive this day. Go now and become the living monument to our end-" he choked on his words, "Don't let us become as momentary as the broken furniture swept away when the barricade falls."
He felt the Eagle's lips brush his forehead softly, "You can't convince me to leave anymore than I can convince you, so save your passion for heaven-when we will undoubtedly lead a revolution towards God, to absolve the world of whatever sin it has committed and to give it freedom." And his smile faded ever so slightly, "For Lord knows we need freedom."
"But can we find it here?" Joly continued. "Do we have to wait for heaven-assuming we get there? When will the world reach 'final freedom', if that's what you want to call it? The Apocalypse? Is that the answer? The end of everything? Ultimate peace in nothingness? Oh, I know we've all asked this of ourselves in the darkest corners of night, but now is the time to voice it. If not now-when? Who will fight after us if the Republic dies here, with its citizens? The Republic of Heaven isn't enough- especially since it has a hard enough time reaching we of earth while it remains the Kingdom of today. Who rules the skies this morning, Bossuet? Who will rule them tomorrow? Is this all just another turning in the great tides of history? No, no. Of course it is..." he trailed away from his questions, straying off the path even further.
The Eagle's smile had yet to return. "So many questions, cher, when will we have time to answer every last one? Do you really want to know the answers before it ends? For in this end, it will be much more comfortable to remain within the ideals of our Utopia, won't it? We will find each other after it is over. I assure you, if there is an afterlife our friends will gather once again. Even Grantaire, for where will he go without Enjolras? The end is imminent. But so is the beginning."
Joly turned away slightly in response, "It is difficult to believe in something once you have questioned it. But. nothing is perfect, in the end. In striving for Utopia, we have forgotten Paris. In fighting for the Republic, we forgot the peasants of today. Our gamins mock us, then struggle beside us in not only our blood, while we pursue ghosts of cherubs. So we go to our last stand blind. But justice is blind, I suppose."
"And there is always love, dearest friend," Bossuet continued. "We battle for the future that will not come without the people. Our skirmish today is the final wakened breath of the great beast of the Republic. He lies to slumber once again when our cartridges are wasted. But Love and her never-ceasing smile will radiate on all our heads today. We, who fight for our ideals and each other, as well as the men on the other side of the barricade, who fight for the safety of their families. Love in it all, love, the bane and breath of humanity. She, along with insufferable Hope guide our hands today."
"Mmmm." Joly replied.
The two waited for salvation, and hoped for Heaven well into the first hours of day.
Combeferre, surrounded by students and workmen, spoke of the dead, of Jean Prouvaire, of Bahorel, of Mabeuf, and even of Le Cabuc, and of the stern sadness of Enjolras.
On and on, he wove his words. The master of philosophy. France's Plato, draped in the unseen robes of white, stained with the blood payment of revolution. And he talked for what seemed eternity in some respects to these poor doomed souls. Half of whom had families, and a few of whom would have had no future anyway. Combeferre prayed silently that the resilience in faith he himself felt was poured into these words. He'd seen it failing even in his closest friends this morning. Courfeyrac, following the death of Jehan. Joly, finally accepting that he would more likely die of a bayonet or a bullet than consumption, and the worse off for it. What they needed was inspiration-what they needed was Enjolras. But for some reason, their fearless leader was nowhere to be found. Until he was discovered, Combeferre would have to do. At least until he managed to get the men to comfort each other. Eventually, someone would realize all the reassurance was emanating from one man, that Combeferre himself was no prophet, no God. Oh, they needed Apollo.
But sooner rather than later, men began to trail off into groups of new or old friends to instill faith or make plans of the first things they would do after the barricades were to be. Combeferre stood slowly and made his way towards the Corinth, hoping for a refuge from the ever-reddening outline of dawn. He stopped, halfway to the door, and his lips parted slightly in remorse as he spotted two men crouched near a third, who was coughing, his entire body racked with the pain of death. And their hurried, whispered voices reassured the poor man all the way to the last shuddering breaths of thankfulness for having such loyal friends and such a wonderful ideal to fight fo..
Combeferre nodded in final respect to the men, though no one was watching him, and entered the Corinth. But instead of sanctuary, he found two cold eyes staring deep into his own, no, not deeply. Instead, they washed over Combeferre like the coldest of rains. It was the spy. The Inspector. Javert, wasn't it? They'd found his papers, the ones explaining his place on the barricades, and that if his dead body was found that it should not be disposed of like a common rebel's. And if Enjolras had his way, that message would be read and followed.
Someone had said once, when they thought they were out of hearing of both men, that "Enjolras will get it done, Combeferre will tell him why." And in that phrase, Combeferre had found strange comfort. He loved Enjolras-they all did, in different ways-but Combeferre had a tendency to feel forgotten when in the presence of his great leader. Like when a knight forgets that his armor does half the work. Yet still. He loved him. So there was comfort in this quote, a reassurance that Enjolras might need Combeferre as much as Combeferre needed him.
But this allusion held more than encouragement, it was the line of duty for Combeferre. And some things aren't meant to be understood. He approached the Inspector, "Monsieur Inspector," he addressed the man respectfully and quietly. The man continued to stare, laconically. No expression hinted that it might exist anywhere upon his face. It was like conversing with a statue. "Monsieur," Combeferre continued, "I have an offer for you."
The spy blinked slowly, then sneered. Here is a man, he thought, who thinks that he can save himself by setting me free. Weak cowardice, a break in the so-called never ceasing loyalty. Traitor. He turned his head to the side, facing away from the revolutionary.
"Monsieur," Combeferre pleaded, "I will set you free." Yes, Javert had expected as much, "If you swear to me to make no move against the Republic." Javert turned back towards the man, mouth on the verge of hanging open, but controlled by years of restraint. Combeferre, encouraged by his attainment of the spy's attention, continued. "I will sneak you out to the back, and from there you will be able to escape-only give me your word that you will not report to your superiors of our movements or plans, that you will not attempt to bring down anymore barricades. I do not ask for your support, Monsieur, only your cooperation."
And then the man spoke, "You cannot set me free and expect me to disobey my superiors," Javert returned coolly. "Despite what little consequence you may think I mean, I will not abandon my sworn duty in exchange for my life. I have given my word to protect society from danger, and I will. You are a danger, you bring death and destruction of property and homes wherever you march in your quest for a better society. This society functions perfectly well, why not embrace it? Not only those who want to fight die on barricades. What of the children and mothers huddled in their one-room public housings, frightened and positive they will not live the night? Any stray bullet will cut through the walls and slay any one of them. I will not kill the children for your ideals."
Combeferre's brow furrowed slightly. He had almost expected this response. "What of the children when they grow up? Can you leave them in this world where they have no rights to exist in equality? The only children in danger here are those of the poor and the gamins. The bourgeois lock their offspring in well-guarded stonewalled rooms far from the danger of revolution. Those children will never have to worry about their freedom. But forgive me; did I say 'only children' when I spoke of the poor? It seemed as if I meant that they were of no consequence, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. This next generation, each child of it, deserves a free country where they have choices and opportunities, not this monarch-controlled tyranny where only the bourgeois and nobles rise. Where is the noble in nobility? Where has it gone?"
"You have not answered my own questions, rebel. Do not assume to ask your own until you have completed those. I repeat to you, monsieur, why not embrace this society? How many of the poor have come to your barricade? How many of them are as eager as yourself to die for new opportunity? Where are they? Why question the educated nobility before you question the instinctual public?"
"This society, monsieur Inspecteur, does not function fairly. Nothing under God is completely fair, I concede, but if every man has his say-isn't that more honorable than one man controlling all? As for the poor. Every man is afraid of something. Not all are prepared to die for a better tomorrow. The 'instinctual public' as you named them has no other choice but instinct. They have had no education; they know nothing of the outside world-only of their world of existence, the one that is not about law or tomorrow but about survival and today. They do not see another today on the barricades, so they avoid it as if it were the incarnation of the plague. So we few that understand their unseen bonds struggle to free them, or at least give them the vision and strength to do so."
At this Javert scoffed, "'They don't see the bonds', so are they really there? Who's to say that a man is restricted by anything but what he himself sees? You are the only one who knows you. If I do not see my life as a burden, why should anyone else?"
Combeferre looked down and away from the Inspector, "You, monsieur, live in chains." When he didn't respond, the philosopher continued. "Do you have family? No, I thought not. I do not believe that you see tomorrow. It is not in your vision, as it is not in the vision of the poor. You see today and believe that it works satisfactorily, if not perfectly, and you are content. But tomorrow, monsieur, oh, tomorrow will be grand. Tomorrow we will lift the burden from the world and set it free upon itself to rid the people of oppression and give them their own freedom. The Republic will be the government of the masses, the result of equality. You've heard our motto no doubt, equalite, liberte, fraternite. Every man will have his say, and in this freedom we will achieve a place closer to Utopia than we may ever have dreamed before."
Javert wanted to sneer, "Utopia? What is this place you continually speak of? We are French. Now, I am not a learned man. I studied to become an instrument of the law, and nothing else. It is not my chosen place to fantasize of Eden or other such absurdities. It is my call, my duty to ensure that France-not Utopia-is safe. That justice here is served. I care not for you 'Utopia'."
"Justice, monsieur?" Combeferre whispered, indignantly, "Justice? What do you mean? The death of the poor on the street? I'm sure you've seen it yourself; maybe you're even a part of it! Is justice jailing fathers who steal for their children? Is it the suppression of children who cannot fend for themselves and are left to die in the cold? Is it allowing a bourgeois who has beaten a whore to walk free without worry of trial? Tell me, monsieur, is that Justice??"
"And what is it that you are attempting to accomplish here?" Javert hissed back. "Freedom by means of death? None of you will live to see your precious tomorrow. And you know it, don't you? You try to encourage the rabble but they will not be soothed. They all see the futility, why not accept it yourself? What is the justice of killing good men on this barricade to create a tentative, wispy government? They will not be remembered by any but those who cease to have fathers, husbands or sons. You know it as well as I. You are only another danger to the people of Paris. You kill more than you free. Argue all you want that this is to make a point; they will die practically by your hand. Is that your Justice?"
Combeferre swallowed his words, "My. My offer still stands, monsieur," he managed.
"And you have heard the only answer I will ever give you."
The philosopher of the Republic nodded stiffly. And returned to the crimson of blood-light outside. For a moment, as he stood in the doorway, his form was outlined in the most terrifying scarlet, but his posture so weakened by his recent defeat that the two contradictions left the Inspector to think for a long time before light began to approach the courtyard.
Sitting on chairs on the second floor, there were two forms. One sprawled half across the table, merely an outline in the coming of dawn, the second straight backed in his plain wood seat, illuminated by unobstructed blood light. And he knew it. Oh, he was very aware of the light, and the morning, and the gunfire beyond it. While the first figure dreamt dreamlessly in darkness, the other watched him from the light, red sunrays depicting each detail of his perfect features. A mixture of disgust, frustration, anger, and sorrow graced the second's godlike face, and the last did not seem a welcome or remembered expression.
Enjolras had heard what Combeferre said to the spy. Had heard it, and disdained it at first, disgusted and appalled that one of his own could make such an offer. Any other man but Enjolras would have understood the heartbreak of his philosopher friend at the prospect of too much death coming, but Apollo. Part of him wept silently at his realization of the humanity in Combeferre, but this part, this weak, emotional part wasn't offered so much as a pat on the back by the other half, the half that could not allow itself to weep. The half that would win the day, even in death.
And he had also heard the spy's responses, and sneered at these. But soon, the sneers became less apparent, the scoffs faded into oblivion, and Enjolras, for the first time, was faced by the possibility of doubt. But no, he was the last pillar, the last strength behind the barricade. No one would ever breach the ramifications of his ideals, and yet. the same had been thought of Troy. And if he was so sure of himself, why was he hiding up here with the drunkard?
Enjolras turned away from the first man, who gave no sign at any inkling of his presence. Grantaire. Cynic; insufferable, unbearable, unreliable, immoral, infuriating and yet, somehow inalienable drunkard. And here he was, hiding with him. But the worst part was, the worst part of all, was that Grantaire wasn't hiding here by personal choice. Enjolras had condemned the man to this fate the previous day, and Grantaire had not gone willingly. Damn the man, damn the indecipherable man to the bowels of hell, and may he rot there with the Repub-
He caught himself before the condemning thought could finish itself. Doubt could not be allowed to take root, not now! Not now that the end would come, now that they would all die for his ideals. "Oh God," he whispered desperately to himself. Enjolras' hands covered his face in remorse and his elbows came to rest on the table. Why them? Why the most brilliant people he had ever met in his life? Why had they been the ones to answer his rallying cry, why were they the ones who would be exchanging inevitably fatal fire with the representatives of their opposition?
"Tell me," he faced of the unconscious Grantaire, insisting on a response from the far-gone man, "You, who claim to have seen the workings of this mad world, tell me why it was them. Explain to me why it had to be the best Paris had to offer-why are the idealists such good people in this city? And why are they all so convinced that I will lead them through? That I will be the one to bring about our Republic? Why was it them?" the final question poured itself out of Enjolras' voice with such fervor that he ceased to breathe for a second, fearful that someone might hear and find him.
But no betraying footsteps came and Enjolras shifted his apprehensive gaze from the stairs back to the unconscious cynic. "Well?" he hissed, more at himself for asking than at Grantaire for not answering. "Where's the solution? And where. where is the end? When will we have our Republic, when will the children be free? When will I be free of you? At the same moment I suppose? I should have realized, for you won't ever go away, will you?" there was silence. "Tell me, Grantaire. Give me my faith back."
As expected, the drunkard made no move other than to breathe. Enjolras receded into himself as well, for his last spoken words had revealed to him the truth of his situation, the reason behind his upset and anger. His faith was gone, sucked up into nothingness or lost on the road behind him, in all likelihood being beaten upon by reality. How had it disappeared? When had it strayed away? The answer, he realized, lay in front of him.
Grantaire moaned something and shifted slightly in the darkness. Enjolras, in the crimson of the light, stared in almost open horror and realization. Confidence had become only a fleeting thing in these past hours, hope had bid fond farewells and gone to bring salvation somewhere else. And faith. faith had drunk too much wine again. Apollo weakened under the burden of the sun without his priests to worship him. Orestes stumbled under the accusations of the multitudes without Pylades to support him in every way. Enjolras lost his conviction when his last supporter drifted away again.
And it was true, wasn't it? The others would die for him willingly, would sacrifice themselves on the altar of the Republic before letting their priest even contemplate risking himself. But here, here was the last man. The man who would undoubtedly arise from the shadows to try and take the priest's final place, who would push him out of line for hell, just so his cleric could fight for Utopia just a bit longer. And he would never complain, never even contemplate such in jest. And finally, when the priest himself noticed the road to atheism, he would block the way and point the cleric in the right direction, declaring that there was only enough room on that dismal trail for one of them, namely himself.
But now that the guardian of despair was finally asleep, the ones he was trying to protect began to once again notice the possibility and likelihood of impending doom, and began to drift towards it, as we all are so wont to do. Without the option of seeing and disdaining a man already engrossed in pessimism and cynicism, a strangely tempting darkness appeared, and too many became unwittingly trapped under the great monsters' claws themselves.
Enjolras breathed out in annoyance. Was that it, then? The one man whom he could count on to always be around, but never to participate. The one man who most assumed would be the first to die on the barricades, using himself to become an inconspicuous human shield for that which he loved most. Too late for that, now. But who knew what would be lost without him? Who would have ever suspected?
Now, however, Enjolras decided, he had no need of the protection. He knew what had occurred, what he had lost, and how to retrieve it. Faith was just around the corner, he just needed to get back on the main road. He stood, hands on the table, washed in the red dawn. Blood. already? He sighed quietly and turned towards the stairwell.
But he couldn't leave yet. He looked over his shoulder and gave Grantaire the first and last backward glance in his life, the first second thought and the first supposition that perhaps there was more to the man then cynicism and inebriation. Perhaps, he decided, but such could only proved in the future, when the ineffable drunk woke up to hear the gunfire and the shouts of victory. or the cries of despair and pain. Enjolras shook his head, "No. Not today. Not the Republic."
He left, already glowing with revitalized conviction.
Grantaire frowned in his sleep, as if remembering something particularly unpleasant, and a small cry drifted through the lightened room, only the first of too many that day.
Finally, the sun emerged from behind the buildings, gracing Paris' fighting sons last of all on her journey above France. The dead, now visible in the daylight, were moved away from the barricade itself, no longer allowed to be blatant symbols of their decided fate. Soft clouds, normally white, spread like gauze above the sky, sharing the bloodied appearance of their counterpart bandages bound around rebelling limbs. But beneath the crimson morning, there were shades of yellow, orange, and the faintest hints of blue in the West. It would have been a beautiful day.
Dawn approached and light rose into crimson backdrop around the buildings surrounding the barricade. The torch was put out.
"I'm delighted that the torch is out," said Courfeyrac to Feuilly. "That torch, shuddering in the wind, annoyed me. It seemed afraid. The light of a torch is like the wisdom of a coward; it's not clear, because it trembles."
Feuilly let himself grin slightly at this remark of his friend's, although he knew Courfeyrac would never see his smile, not in this light. For the dark was more prominent than at any other dawn he had ever known to rise above night. "Remarkably metaphorical during these fine witching hours, aren't we?" he murmured in response.
"It's far past the witching hour, Feuilly," Courfeyrac replied in quiet grimness. "We're falling into daylight, blind bats who napped too long in the night and find themselves alone and burning when day creeps upon them."
Feuilly turned to the black shape that was Courfeyrac. "And you're switching radically between moods," he remarked. "Something wrong?" /What a rhetorical question./ the fan maker mused.
"Oh no, of course not," the other responded in horrible, mocking resemblance to his usual cheery tone. "Life treads along its weary road as it ever has. But it rained last night, and the ditches which one trips into are full of mud that clings and sucks the soul."
Feuilly stared at him hard. "You're starting to sound like Grantaire, what with all your metaphorical pessimism. Perhaps I should wake him so he will finally have someone to spar with his verbal weapons of inanity?"
Courfeyrac laughed slightly, "I don't know if either combatant would appreciate that. But no matter, it will make no difference in a matter of hours." His laughter trailed off into what sounded almost like a sob.
But all his Feuilly could bring himself to do was stare open mouthed at the formerly rambunctious student. Courfeyrac had always been there for him, he knew. Always ready for with a joke to lighten the mood or an extra hand when you were down on your knees without an apartment or a coat. And now he had voiced the one thought that everyone shared. The one-way ticket to doom that everyone buried in the crevices of their minds, hoping that it would be forgotten before they found themselves once again in a living hell.
"He's dead." Courfeyrac moaned softly. "You loved him too, Feuilly- he's gone, and so we will be when the light rises far enough. Like the dew on the morning grass-either dried into nothing by the sun or spattered into what barely resembles water by so many feet."
And now he understood.
Jean Prouvaire. Lovingly called Jehan. Oh, so lovingly.
"And I feel as that torch, that guttering light, strong when out of the wind of grief but trembling as a coward when confronted with death and pain!" and all this was no more than a whisper. Courfeyrac, that black shape, seized Feuilly's shoulder and shook him gently, "We will not survive this day-and I am afraid. I cannot tell anyone else-what would they think?? Courfeyrac, that rascal, that lively man, doubting his own success? They would lose any hope they have managed to retain this long, dreadful night. See that light above the buildings? Red as blood. Red is not the world dawning. It is blood rising." He laughed softly at himself, "The blood of angry men. And desperate men."
Feuilly could not bring himself to shake off his friend. Not now. Because they had both loved their poet. Sweet, good Jehan; reading his poetry, searching for the soul and the good of the world, and never failing to argue for humanity when someone tried to refute its morals. But he was dead. And so they would be as well, just as Courfeyrac had wept to him, like a crazed oracle of Delphi. "And so you speak in distant metaphor?" he whispered in return, careful not to attract attention. "A cynical dirge of repentance?"
Courfeyrac looked up at him, still clutching Feuilly's old, threadbare coat, his eyes catching the not-quite light of near-dawn. But they did not shine as they once had. They did not contain the glow of revolution as they had in the café Musain. Now they reflected the light, as a tide pool about to be swept out to sea reflects the sun, but does not see it.
"Courfeyrac, dearest friend," Feuilly placed a hand on his shoulder as well. It was like touching a corpse. "Death is not yours to repent. It was not of your design. But you don't have to fear it either. I will not tell anyone if you leave now. It would be good if one of us could survive to further our ideals-to finally bring the Republic to life. For what can we possibly accomplish if we all die here? We'll make our point, surely, but who will be left to care?"
Courfeyrac released his coat and recoiled slightly. "I will not leave you here," he choked. "Send someone else on your errand for the future. All that matters to me is in this barricade. And if I must die in fear, so be it. I will not die quietly in my bed after the rest of you commit suicide for your ideals."
Feuilly couldn't help but smile slightly. /You remain to die in fear? Then it is not fear, mon ami./ He dropped his hand from Courfeyrac's shoulder to rest it on his hand. "I'll admit-it's rather morbid. No hope for survival after high noon? Then why don't we admire this last sunrise?"
He would never know, but Courfeyrac smile in response. "To be picked off by a sniper? No. I will remain here until the thick of the fight returns. As a patient moth, waiting for the burning light which signifies its doom. For the Republic."
"And."
"And Jehan."
The dawn awakens minds as well as birds; everyone was chatting.
Seeing a cat prowling around a waterspout, Joly extracted some philosophy from it.
"What is the cat?" he exclaimed. "It is a corrective. God, having made the mouse, said, 'I've made a blunder.' And he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse, plus the cat, is the revised proof of creation."
Joly sat on his barrel, musing quietly at the cat and doing his best to ignore the red tinge about the buildings, concentrating on the white- blue of the sky. It promised to be a beautiful day. The most beautiful day, kept away by the great hideous beast of a barricade surrounding the Corinth. He'd come into the final battle drunk-gone through half of it with a raging hangover, and now he sat, finally ready for the end. For it would be the end, wouldn't it? Battles, skirmishes, and melees would rage, but yesterday's twilight had in all likelihood been his last.
"For the Republic." he tried to reassure himself quietly, eyes focused on the sky. Oh the sky. Only just emerging into day. He wished he could truly appreciate it, out in the open instead of through this narrow triangle between buildings. There were so few clouds.
He felt a body set down beside him and looked up, expecting to find another revolutionary who'd finally admitted to himself that his arm really wasn't 'just bleeding a bit'. Instead, a smiling face greeted him, its lips curled in the slightest of smiles that it was so fond of falling into. "Good almost morning," Bossuet said.
"I expect it will be breath-taking," Joly replied. "Even more so if we could manage to catch sight of the sun itself. Just imagine what light it would spread across this sky-so clear seeming as it is. I never expected it to be so fair after yesterday and all that rain. What a relief that I don't need an umbrella to be out here, in case of burning. I would hate to be inside. now, that is.because of all the." he trailed off, realizing that he hadn't given the still smiling Bossuet a chance to speak.
Bossuet chuckled softly and leaned back on the wall supporting the overturned barrel. "I heard you musing about our feline friend," he commented non-chalantly. If anyone had happened to listen to their exchange without being aware of their location, it would have sounded like the small talk between friends, shared at an out of the way café, far away from the rush and screech of most Paris streets. But they were alone in their quiet conversation. "So." he continued, "Which one of us the mouse?" the closely watching observer would have noticed how close the two were sitting to each other, or how their hands were touching, but not quite holding.
A soft laugh followed his dry question, "Oh, Bossuet. Could I ever call you an error?"
The Eagle's hand brushed over Joly's, resting on it lightly, "What a clever mouse then, to have trapped the cat."
Silence followed, and the now loosely defined shapes that were the people of the barricade had barely visible faces. Joly leaned closer to Bossuet and almost too softly to be heard whispered, "I love you, you know."
The words would have been ruined by a response of 'I know' or 'I love you too', and so in typical Bossuet fashion, he flew into a spiraling discourse in response, "Such a confirmation between two people seems to be the only way of knowing anything these days. What is verbal or written is so much more tangible and believable than flighty ideals and as of yet non- existent government systems. But a shared feeling of mutual affection, affection so strong so as to be called love. It is not always the need to be confirmed in a world of uncertainties that drives us to pronounce such commitment-it is at times the deep passion of true love that propels declarations of such feeling. This deep passion threatens to drive us insane with its fervor if we don't speak of it every once in a while." He looked straight at his friend and lover. "So you will forgive me, cher Joly, if I must resort to such elaborate means when I wish to let you know how much I love you in return."
Joly felt himself about to blush. He was glad of the dark because Bossuet would never know, though he in all likelihood knew exactly what he was doing to the hypochondriac's pulse rate. All the same, he reveled in the moment. /The Republic. For the Republic./ He tried to remind himself. But when he died, what would it matter? How much closer to equality, liberty and fraternity would they be? All right, so the fraternity part was already ensured, but.
"And what exactly is it that's driving you to such ill health this time, cher?" the Eagle asked.
But it wouldn't be fair to share his doubts with Bossuet. No, it wasn't fair to the Republic itself to doubt it for a single second. It wasn't fair to query the logic of dying on the barricade, where no one would care the next morning. But how could the people ignore the statement made by blood? Quite easily, he knew. So many died by violence everyday, what would the difference be if on the sixth of June they died for their ideals? No one would notice in a few years, when the red stains finally washed away from the stones. "The Republic," was all he could whisper, his eyes turned away towards the ground.
"Will come eventually," Bossuet replied, as if reading his mind. Reading his mind. Joly suddenly felt guilty for all the secret doubts that somehow lodged themselves in the darkest corners of his heart. "Even if we are not the soldiers to herald it, the people will free themselves. We fight for their eventual realization today." The Eagle had seamlessly made the transition from lover to fellow revolutionist in seconds. "The people are the only things that can break their chains. Only their desire will be able to bridge the final obstacle to the Republic."
"But." Joly bit his lip, unsure if he should continue his thoughts aloud. But deep passion requires lengthy admissions, as Bossuet himself had said only moments before. "We shouldn't-no one should-you shouldn't die today!" he blurted out. "You should go and live and thrive and revive the ideals. Send the Republic our way ever faster-I would go straight to the bowels of hell and endure the fate of Sisyphus if I knew you would survive this day. Go now and become the living monument to our end-" he choked on his words, "Don't let us become as momentary as the broken furniture swept away when the barricade falls."
He felt the Eagle's lips brush his forehead softly, "You can't convince me to leave anymore than I can convince you, so save your passion for heaven-when we will undoubtedly lead a revolution towards God, to absolve the world of whatever sin it has committed and to give it freedom." And his smile faded ever so slightly, "For Lord knows we need freedom."
"But can we find it here?" Joly continued. "Do we have to wait for heaven-assuming we get there? When will the world reach 'final freedom', if that's what you want to call it? The Apocalypse? Is that the answer? The end of everything? Ultimate peace in nothingness? Oh, I know we've all asked this of ourselves in the darkest corners of night, but now is the time to voice it. If not now-when? Who will fight after us if the Republic dies here, with its citizens? The Republic of Heaven isn't enough- especially since it has a hard enough time reaching we of earth while it remains the Kingdom of today. Who rules the skies this morning, Bossuet? Who will rule them tomorrow? Is this all just another turning in the great tides of history? No, no. Of course it is..." he trailed away from his questions, straying off the path even further.
The Eagle's smile had yet to return. "So many questions, cher, when will we have time to answer every last one? Do you really want to know the answers before it ends? For in this end, it will be much more comfortable to remain within the ideals of our Utopia, won't it? We will find each other after it is over. I assure you, if there is an afterlife our friends will gather once again. Even Grantaire, for where will he go without Enjolras? The end is imminent. But so is the beginning."
Joly turned away slightly in response, "It is difficult to believe in something once you have questioned it. But. nothing is perfect, in the end. In striving for Utopia, we have forgotten Paris. In fighting for the Republic, we forgot the peasants of today. Our gamins mock us, then struggle beside us in not only our blood, while we pursue ghosts of cherubs. So we go to our last stand blind. But justice is blind, I suppose."
"And there is always love, dearest friend," Bossuet continued. "We battle for the future that will not come without the people. Our skirmish today is the final wakened breath of the great beast of the Republic. He lies to slumber once again when our cartridges are wasted. But Love and her never-ceasing smile will radiate on all our heads today. We, who fight for our ideals and each other, as well as the men on the other side of the barricade, who fight for the safety of their families. Love in it all, love, the bane and breath of humanity. She, along with insufferable Hope guide our hands today."
"Mmmm." Joly replied.
The two waited for salvation, and hoped for Heaven well into the first hours of day.
Combeferre, surrounded by students and workmen, spoke of the dead, of Jean Prouvaire, of Bahorel, of Mabeuf, and even of Le Cabuc, and of the stern sadness of Enjolras.
On and on, he wove his words. The master of philosophy. France's Plato, draped in the unseen robes of white, stained with the blood payment of revolution. And he talked for what seemed eternity in some respects to these poor doomed souls. Half of whom had families, and a few of whom would have had no future anyway. Combeferre prayed silently that the resilience in faith he himself felt was poured into these words. He'd seen it failing even in his closest friends this morning. Courfeyrac, following the death of Jehan. Joly, finally accepting that he would more likely die of a bayonet or a bullet than consumption, and the worse off for it. What they needed was inspiration-what they needed was Enjolras. But for some reason, their fearless leader was nowhere to be found. Until he was discovered, Combeferre would have to do. At least until he managed to get the men to comfort each other. Eventually, someone would realize all the reassurance was emanating from one man, that Combeferre himself was no prophet, no God. Oh, they needed Apollo.
But sooner rather than later, men began to trail off into groups of new or old friends to instill faith or make plans of the first things they would do after the barricades were to be. Combeferre stood slowly and made his way towards the Corinth, hoping for a refuge from the ever-reddening outline of dawn. He stopped, halfway to the door, and his lips parted slightly in remorse as he spotted two men crouched near a third, who was coughing, his entire body racked with the pain of death. And their hurried, whispered voices reassured the poor man all the way to the last shuddering breaths of thankfulness for having such loyal friends and such a wonderful ideal to fight fo..
Combeferre nodded in final respect to the men, though no one was watching him, and entered the Corinth. But instead of sanctuary, he found two cold eyes staring deep into his own, no, not deeply. Instead, they washed over Combeferre like the coldest of rains. It was the spy. The Inspector. Javert, wasn't it? They'd found his papers, the ones explaining his place on the barricades, and that if his dead body was found that it should not be disposed of like a common rebel's. And if Enjolras had his way, that message would be read and followed.
Someone had said once, when they thought they were out of hearing of both men, that "Enjolras will get it done, Combeferre will tell him why." And in that phrase, Combeferre had found strange comfort. He loved Enjolras-they all did, in different ways-but Combeferre had a tendency to feel forgotten when in the presence of his great leader. Like when a knight forgets that his armor does half the work. Yet still. He loved him. So there was comfort in this quote, a reassurance that Enjolras might need Combeferre as much as Combeferre needed him.
But this allusion held more than encouragement, it was the line of duty for Combeferre. And some things aren't meant to be understood. He approached the Inspector, "Monsieur Inspector," he addressed the man respectfully and quietly. The man continued to stare, laconically. No expression hinted that it might exist anywhere upon his face. It was like conversing with a statue. "Monsieur," Combeferre continued, "I have an offer for you."
The spy blinked slowly, then sneered. Here is a man, he thought, who thinks that he can save himself by setting me free. Weak cowardice, a break in the so-called never ceasing loyalty. Traitor. He turned his head to the side, facing away from the revolutionary.
"Monsieur," Combeferre pleaded, "I will set you free." Yes, Javert had expected as much, "If you swear to me to make no move against the Republic." Javert turned back towards the man, mouth on the verge of hanging open, but controlled by years of restraint. Combeferre, encouraged by his attainment of the spy's attention, continued. "I will sneak you out to the back, and from there you will be able to escape-only give me your word that you will not report to your superiors of our movements or plans, that you will not attempt to bring down anymore barricades. I do not ask for your support, Monsieur, only your cooperation."
And then the man spoke, "You cannot set me free and expect me to disobey my superiors," Javert returned coolly. "Despite what little consequence you may think I mean, I will not abandon my sworn duty in exchange for my life. I have given my word to protect society from danger, and I will. You are a danger, you bring death and destruction of property and homes wherever you march in your quest for a better society. This society functions perfectly well, why not embrace it? Not only those who want to fight die on barricades. What of the children and mothers huddled in their one-room public housings, frightened and positive they will not live the night? Any stray bullet will cut through the walls and slay any one of them. I will not kill the children for your ideals."
Combeferre's brow furrowed slightly. He had almost expected this response. "What of the children when they grow up? Can you leave them in this world where they have no rights to exist in equality? The only children in danger here are those of the poor and the gamins. The bourgeois lock their offspring in well-guarded stonewalled rooms far from the danger of revolution. Those children will never have to worry about their freedom. But forgive me; did I say 'only children' when I spoke of the poor? It seemed as if I meant that they were of no consequence, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. This next generation, each child of it, deserves a free country where they have choices and opportunities, not this monarch-controlled tyranny where only the bourgeois and nobles rise. Where is the noble in nobility? Where has it gone?"
"You have not answered my own questions, rebel. Do not assume to ask your own until you have completed those. I repeat to you, monsieur, why not embrace this society? How many of the poor have come to your barricade? How many of them are as eager as yourself to die for new opportunity? Where are they? Why question the educated nobility before you question the instinctual public?"
"This society, monsieur Inspecteur, does not function fairly. Nothing under God is completely fair, I concede, but if every man has his say-isn't that more honorable than one man controlling all? As for the poor. Every man is afraid of something. Not all are prepared to die for a better tomorrow. The 'instinctual public' as you named them has no other choice but instinct. They have had no education; they know nothing of the outside world-only of their world of existence, the one that is not about law or tomorrow but about survival and today. They do not see another today on the barricades, so they avoid it as if it were the incarnation of the plague. So we few that understand their unseen bonds struggle to free them, or at least give them the vision and strength to do so."
At this Javert scoffed, "'They don't see the bonds', so are they really there? Who's to say that a man is restricted by anything but what he himself sees? You are the only one who knows you. If I do not see my life as a burden, why should anyone else?"
Combeferre looked down and away from the Inspector, "You, monsieur, live in chains." When he didn't respond, the philosopher continued. "Do you have family? No, I thought not. I do not believe that you see tomorrow. It is not in your vision, as it is not in the vision of the poor. You see today and believe that it works satisfactorily, if not perfectly, and you are content. But tomorrow, monsieur, oh, tomorrow will be grand. Tomorrow we will lift the burden from the world and set it free upon itself to rid the people of oppression and give them their own freedom. The Republic will be the government of the masses, the result of equality. You've heard our motto no doubt, equalite, liberte, fraternite. Every man will have his say, and in this freedom we will achieve a place closer to Utopia than we may ever have dreamed before."
Javert wanted to sneer, "Utopia? What is this place you continually speak of? We are French. Now, I am not a learned man. I studied to become an instrument of the law, and nothing else. It is not my chosen place to fantasize of Eden or other such absurdities. It is my call, my duty to ensure that France-not Utopia-is safe. That justice here is served. I care not for you 'Utopia'."
"Justice, monsieur?" Combeferre whispered, indignantly, "Justice? What do you mean? The death of the poor on the street? I'm sure you've seen it yourself; maybe you're even a part of it! Is justice jailing fathers who steal for their children? Is it the suppression of children who cannot fend for themselves and are left to die in the cold? Is it allowing a bourgeois who has beaten a whore to walk free without worry of trial? Tell me, monsieur, is that Justice??"
"And what is it that you are attempting to accomplish here?" Javert hissed back. "Freedom by means of death? None of you will live to see your precious tomorrow. And you know it, don't you? You try to encourage the rabble but they will not be soothed. They all see the futility, why not accept it yourself? What is the justice of killing good men on this barricade to create a tentative, wispy government? They will not be remembered by any but those who cease to have fathers, husbands or sons. You know it as well as I. You are only another danger to the people of Paris. You kill more than you free. Argue all you want that this is to make a point; they will die practically by your hand. Is that your Justice?"
Combeferre swallowed his words, "My. My offer still stands, monsieur," he managed.
"And you have heard the only answer I will ever give you."
The philosopher of the Republic nodded stiffly. And returned to the crimson of blood-light outside. For a moment, as he stood in the doorway, his form was outlined in the most terrifying scarlet, but his posture so weakened by his recent defeat that the two contradictions left the Inspector to think for a long time before light began to approach the courtyard.
Sitting on chairs on the second floor, there were two forms. One sprawled half across the table, merely an outline in the coming of dawn, the second straight backed in his plain wood seat, illuminated by unobstructed blood light. And he knew it. Oh, he was very aware of the light, and the morning, and the gunfire beyond it. While the first figure dreamt dreamlessly in darkness, the other watched him from the light, red sunrays depicting each detail of his perfect features. A mixture of disgust, frustration, anger, and sorrow graced the second's godlike face, and the last did not seem a welcome or remembered expression.
Enjolras had heard what Combeferre said to the spy. Had heard it, and disdained it at first, disgusted and appalled that one of his own could make such an offer. Any other man but Enjolras would have understood the heartbreak of his philosopher friend at the prospect of too much death coming, but Apollo. Part of him wept silently at his realization of the humanity in Combeferre, but this part, this weak, emotional part wasn't offered so much as a pat on the back by the other half, the half that could not allow itself to weep. The half that would win the day, even in death.
And he had also heard the spy's responses, and sneered at these. But soon, the sneers became less apparent, the scoffs faded into oblivion, and Enjolras, for the first time, was faced by the possibility of doubt. But no, he was the last pillar, the last strength behind the barricade. No one would ever breach the ramifications of his ideals, and yet. the same had been thought of Troy. And if he was so sure of himself, why was he hiding up here with the drunkard?
Enjolras turned away from the first man, who gave no sign at any inkling of his presence. Grantaire. Cynic; insufferable, unbearable, unreliable, immoral, infuriating and yet, somehow inalienable drunkard. And here he was, hiding with him. But the worst part was, the worst part of all, was that Grantaire wasn't hiding here by personal choice. Enjolras had condemned the man to this fate the previous day, and Grantaire had not gone willingly. Damn the man, damn the indecipherable man to the bowels of hell, and may he rot there with the Repub-
He caught himself before the condemning thought could finish itself. Doubt could not be allowed to take root, not now! Not now that the end would come, now that they would all die for his ideals. "Oh God," he whispered desperately to himself. Enjolras' hands covered his face in remorse and his elbows came to rest on the table. Why them? Why the most brilliant people he had ever met in his life? Why had they been the ones to answer his rallying cry, why were they the ones who would be exchanging inevitably fatal fire with the representatives of their opposition?
"Tell me," he faced of the unconscious Grantaire, insisting on a response from the far-gone man, "You, who claim to have seen the workings of this mad world, tell me why it was them. Explain to me why it had to be the best Paris had to offer-why are the idealists such good people in this city? And why are they all so convinced that I will lead them through? That I will be the one to bring about our Republic? Why was it them?" the final question poured itself out of Enjolras' voice with such fervor that he ceased to breathe for a second, fearful that someone might hear and find him.
But no betraying footsteps came and Enjolras shifted his apprehensive gaze from the stairs back to the unconscious cynic. "Well?" he hissed, more at himself for asking than at Grantaire for not answering. "Where's the solution? And where. where is the end? When will we have our Republic, when will the children be free? When will I be free of you? At the same moment I suppose? I should have realized, for you won't ever go away, will you?" there was silence. "Tell me, Grantaire. Give me my faith back."
As expected, the drunkard made no move other than to breathe. Enjolras receded into himself as well, for his last spoken words had revealed to him the truth of his situation, the reason behind his upset and anger. His faith was gone, sucked up into nothingness or lost on the road behind him, in all likelihood being beaten upon by reality. How had it disappeared? When had it strayed away? The answer, he realized, lay in front of him.
Grantaire moaned something and shifted slightly in the darkness. Enjolras, in the crimson of the light, stared in almost open horror and realization. Confidence had become only a fleeting thing in these past hours, hope had bid fond farewells and gone to bring salvation somewhere else. And faith. faith had drunk too much wine again. Apollo weakened under the burden of the sun without his priests to worship him. Orestes stumbled under the accusations of the multitudes without Pylades to support him in every way. Enjolras lost his conviction when his last supporter drifted away again.
And it was true, wasn't it? The others would die for him willingly, would sacrifice themselves on the altar of the Republic before letting their priest even contemplate risking himself. But here, here was the last man. The man who would undoubtedly arise from the shadows to try and take the priest's final place, who would push him out of line for hell, just so his cleric could fight for Utopia just a bit longer. And he would never complain, never even contemplate such in jest. And finally, when the priest himself noticed the road to atheism, he would block the way and point the cleric in the right direction, declaring that there was only enough room on that dismal trail for one of them, namely himself.
But now that the guardian of despair was finally asleep, the ones he was trying to protect began to once again notice the possibility and likelihood of impending doom, and began to drift towards it, as we all are so wont to do. Without the option of seeing and disdaining a man already engrossed in pessimism and cynicism, a strangely tempting darkness appeared, and too many became unwittingly trapped under the great monsters' claws themselves.
Enjolras breathed out in annoyance. Was that it, then? The one man whom he could count on to always be around, but never to participate. The one man who most assumed would be the first to die on the barricades, using himself to become an inconspicuous human shield for that which he loved most. Too late for that, now. But who knew what would be lost without him? Who would have ever suspected?
Now, however, Enjolras decided, he had no need of the protection. He knew what had occurred, what he had lost, and how to retrieve it. Faith was just around the corner, he just needed to get back on the main road. He stood, hands on the table, washed in the red dawn. Blood. already? He sighed quietly and turned towards the stairwell.
But he couldn't leave yet. He looked over his shoulder and gave Grantaire the first and last backward glance in his life, the first second thought and the first supposition that perhaps there was more to the man then cynicism and inebriation. Perhaps, he decided, but such could only proved in the future, when the ineffable drunk woke up to hear the gunfire and the shouts of victory. or the cries of despair and pain. Enjolras shook his head, "No. Not today. Not the Republic."
He left, already glowing with revitalized conviction.
Grantaire frowned in his sleep, as if remembering something particularly unpleasant, and a small cry drifted through the lightened room, only the first of too many that day.
Finally, the sun emerged from behind the buildings, gracing Paris' fighting sons last of all on her journey above France. The dead, now visible in the daylight, were moved away from the barricade itself, no longer allowed to be blatant symbols of their decided fate. Soft clouds, normally white, spread like gauze above the sky, sharing the bloodied appearance of their counterpart bandages bound around rebelling limbs. But beneath the crimson morning, there were shades of yellow, orange, and the faintest hints of blue in the West. It would have been a beautiful day.