A/N: I know this story focuses largely on a character not really featured by Victor Hugo, and I apologize for that; it was not my original intention. Thanks to megSUPERFAN for her encouragement that I should publish this!
Disclaimer: I do not own Les Misérables. Combeferre's death sentence from the book at the beginning comes from Norman Denny's translation.
"Combeferre, pierced by three bayonet thrusts while he was picking up a wounded soldier, had only time to look up to the sky before he died."
The barricade had been breached. The soldiers who had been waiting all night had attacked and were now swarming over the barricade to fight the rebels on the other side.
Combeferre gripped his musket with one hand, pointing it out, but not at any of the revolutionaries' opponents in particular. Warfare was an awful thing, and Combeferre couldn't quite bring himself to end another man's life; even someone who was willing to kill him instead.
His eyes darted around, searching to spot the figures of his friends amidst the chaos that was going on around him. A shock of red hair flashed to his left, and Combeferre's head snapped towards it. Feuilly. His worker's cap gone, the fanmaker held a sabre in front of him, swinging it at any soldiers who came too close. Courfeyrac stood at his side, brandishing a sword. But a sabre and sword were no match against pistol-shots and carbines, and the soldiers surrounding the two friends kept at a safe distance from both of the weapons. They hadn't yet fired at the two revolutionaries, but Combeferre knew it wouldn't be long until then.
He started across the street towards his friends, unable to stay away while they were in need. He couldn't just stand at the base of the barricade waiting to see them fall; not like he had seen Bahorel and heard Jean Prouvaire die. He didn't know if he could bear to watch the last few seconds of any of his friends, too far away to help them.
Dead and dying bodies lay scattered on the street, and Combeferre tried not to look down at their faces, afraid he'd see one of his friends, eyes vacant, staring blankly up at him.
His attention snapped away from Feuilly and Courfeyrac at the sound of a familiar voice crying, "Vive la France!" He jerked his head in the direction the words were coming from just in time to see Bossuet fall to the ground.
Combeferre couldn't move. His mind was urging his feet onward, but they refused to obey. He could only stare at the spot where his friend had been standing just a moment ago, until he felt the gentle pull at his ankle.
Frédéric was lying on the cobblestones of the street. He wasn't quite sure how he had got there; he didn't remember falling, and all he could feel was the pain radiating through his body. It hurt. Everything hurt, and his body felt like it was on fire.
Two bullets had struck him; one in his right shoulder, causing him to drop his carbine, and the other had slashed across his stomach. Now here he was, lying in the road, with no one around him to help.
He thought about his family, and how they'd miss him when he was gone. He remembered his mother, how she was always there to comfort him, and his father, who constantly provided him with advice. His younger sister had a warm smile prepared whenever he visited home, and his older brother had always been there with him, from the time he was born through every day of his life. Just a year ago, when Frédéric had turned twenty-one, he and his brother, Pierre, had joined the army together.
But now, when he needed his brother the most, Pierre wasn't there, and so here Frédéric was, stuck in the middle of the street, unable to crawl away from the bullets and to safety, and wishing his life wasn't ending this way.
I didn't want to die like this, he thought. I'm not ready. . . . Not yet. . . .
The tug at his leg was what finally brought Combeferre out of his stupor. He looked down and saw a young man holding weakly to the cuff of his trousers, his other hand pressed against the wound in his side.
The man's eyes, a bright electric blue that reminded Combeferre of Enjolras's, though glazed over with pain, were searching Combeferre's face with a look of pleading, begging this man he didn't know and who he was fighting against to help him.
Combeferre dropped his gaze down a little to see the man's wounds. They were bad, and both were bleeding profusely, especially the one in his upper arm where an artery must have been punctured, but the wounds wouldn't be lethal if they were treated quickly.
Being a medical student, Combeferre could help this man, or, at the very least, move him away from the thick of the fighting, because he still had a fighting chance for survival. And Combeferre couldn't walk away, didn't want to just leave him here to die in a few hours when he lost too much blood, or when he got hit by a more carefully aimed bullet.
Combeferre glanced back up towards the young man's face. He was more of a boy, really, several years younger than Combeferre was. His eyes were still fixed on Combeferre's face, trying to convey the words his mouth couldn't seem to form. Combeferre looked over to where his friends had been standing a few moments before, but there were no revolutionaries there now; only more soldiers.
He turned his eyes back to the boy's and made his decision.
Frédéric watched as the rebel knelt down next to him. The man's face was a mixture of grief and compassion, and Frédéric felt hope well in his heart. He moved his lips, but his vocal cords refused to aid him and no sound came out.
He didn't know exactly what this rebel planned to do with him, but if he had wanted to kill Frédéric, he could've done so already. And besides, he didn't look angry, or like someone who would finish him off, his face was more just . . . sadness, for which Frédéric was sure he had a good many reasons.
"I'm going to take you somewhere where you'll be safe," the revolutionary said softly, and then he made a grimace. "Well, safer; there's only so much I can do."
Frédéric tried to speak again, but the pain hurt. His stomach, his arm, both felt like they were on fire, and his head was spinning.
"Shh," said the revolutionary. "Don't speak."
But Frédéric had to say something, and so he made another attempt. This time it came out as a very hoarse, quiet whisper. He wasn't even sure if the revolutionary heard him. "Th-thank you."
Combeferre gently tugged on the soldier's uninjured shoulder, pulling it up from the ground and placing his hand on the soldier's back as he guided him more to a sitting position. He wrapped one arm around the boy's back, and the other he brought under the young man's knees, before starting to lift him from the ground.
And then there was pain.
Combeferre's eyes widened in shock and surprise as he felt three piercing rays of flame go through his body. His gaze left the face of the soldier and searched upward for the sky, that vast expanse that always remained, no matter how it changed each day. Whether it was clear blue, dotted with puffy white clouds, red and orange and gold in the glow of the sunrises, or filled with the glowing pinpricks of stars in the night, Combeferre had always loved to see whatever magnificent and awesome view it provided him with.
Clouds covered it that day, adding darkness and gloom as they blocked out the luminous, pure light that the sun normally spread. Amidst the dreary grey, though, there was one small patch of blue that hadn't been totally obscured.
Combeferre's eyes focused on this small aspect of it as he murmured his final words - those same words that he had spoken to Marius on their first meeting: "To be free."
Frédéric stared in horror at the revolutionary who had only been helping him, and when Combeferre's hold on him slackened, Frédéric felt strong hands seize him from behind and hold him up as the revolutionary fell back towards the earth.
His sky-blue eyes met those of his brother as Pierre sank back to the ground, still holding his younger brother close. Frédéric turned his head and saw one of their friends and another soldier, whom Frédéric had only seen a few other times before, standing above the dead revolutionary. Three bayonet wounds could be seen on the rebel's back, and Frédéric quickly turned his head away from the awful sight, grip tightening on the wound in his own side as another wave of pain washed over him.
He tried to fight it off, tried to think around it and put voice to the one question that filled his mind: Why? The rebel - no, revolutionary - had only been trying to help him. He shouldn't have died like this. Couldn't his brother see that? Why had it happened like this?
His mind was spinning and his head hurt. Both his body and soul hurt, and Frédéric was no longer able to fight the heaviness behind his eyes from his loss of blood. The last thing he heard as he slipped into darkness was his brother repeating the words the revolutionary had told him mere moments ago: "I'm going to get you somewhere safe. Just hang on, mon frère."
The date was June 10, just three days after the barricade.
The door to Frédéric's room opened, and his brother walked in. Seeing he was awake, Pierre asked, "How are you feeling?"
Frédéric looked at him with tired eyes. "Better, I guess," he said. "I mean, it still hurts, but . . . I'm fine."
Pierre nodded and crossed the room to sit on the bed next to his younger brother. They sat in silence for several moments before Frédéric quietly spoke up.
"It wasn't his fault, Pierre," he said, turning his head up to look at his brother. Pierre's face darkened slightly and he turned his head away to look out the window. They both knew who Frédéric was talking about, though the brothers hadn't been able to learn his name.
Frédéric waited, perhaps hoping for a response, but none came. Every time Frédéric closed his eyes, images of the revolutionary looking up at the sky in his final moments flashed through his mind.
At length, he mumbled softly, "He was just trying to help me. Just like you were. It wasn't his fault. . . ." Frédéric's voice cracked.
"I know," Pierre finally said. "I didn't . . . didn't realize until after, when it was too late. I am sorry, Frédéric, but you know why we were there. They were rebelling against the king, and we knew that's what would happen."
"I didn't expect it to be like . . . like that," said Frédéric. "All those men dying . . . they were just like us. And then when I was lying there, I thought I was going to die, too, and . . . and I wasn't ready for that to happen, Pierre, I was scared."
Pierre wrapped his arms around his young brother, holding him close, wishing he could protect him from all the awful things of this world, with its pain and suffering. Frédéric dropped his head down on Pierre's shoulder in response.
The revolutionaries' lives were over, but their purpose and what they had fought for was not. And Frédéric would remember them and the cause they had so passionately given their lives for - the hope they had sparked in the people, their dream of a better tomorrow. The people had not stirred this time, but one day, they would be ready. One day others would rise and take their place, fighting for the world the revolutionaries had longed for, the world for which the people desired as well and for which they would one day fight to have, until the earth was free.