~The Friends of the ABC~
Enjolras remained still where he sat upon the wooden floor of the café, still holding Grantaire's lifeless body in his arms and gazing silently down upon the man's cold face. Both of these men, one alive and the other dead, were now the same color, red, as they were both soaked completely in the blood that still continued to flow out from the dead man's wounds. Now, Enjolras was alone. The café was completely silent. The streets were completely silent. The gunfire had stopped, the battle was over, and anyone who might have still been alive was silent. The world, it seemed, had fallen silent to behold the death of this man. Now, Enjolras felt completely alone as he sat surrounded by the corpses of all of his dead friends.
Enjolras stared sadly down at Grantaire's body, a hallow, empty feeling like a black pit inside of him. For the time, Enjolras could hardly feel anything, as his senses were numb and vague. In a few days, he suspected, the reality of it all would hit him, and with it would hit the pain, as well. As for now, a single tear slowly rolled down his cheek and turned red, bloodied from the wounds on Enjolras's face and from the blood that Grantaire had been choking up as he died.
Enjolras looked sadly down at Grantaire for a moment longer before he released Grantaire with one arm and raised a bloody hand to make the sigh of the cross over himself, touching his forehead, his heart, and then each of his shoulders, and leaving a smear of blood in each of these places. Then, he made this same sigh over Grantaire's lifeless body, blessing him with the sign of Christ, knowing that now, this man's soul would be in God's presence.
"Be at peace, mon ami," Enjolras whispered softly to this dead man. Be at peace, my friend. Then, he gently took Grantaire's face in his hands, leaned over him, and placed a kiss upon his forehead, kissing this drunkard with his pure, virgin lips, which until this moment had never kissed anything else. This was not a romantic kiss. It was a brotherly kiss. The kiss of a king to his fallen soldier.
Enjolras slowly got to his feet, taking Grantaire's body into his arms and picking him up. This time, Grantaire did not cry out and his face did not twist in pain, but his body remained still and lifeless. His head fell limply back and his hand hung dead beside him as Enjolras held him in his arms, cradling him like a child. Grantaire was not heavy.
Enjolras carried him slowly through the café, until they were downstairs where he gently laid Grantaire down on the floor. Then he went back upstairs to go into each room and search for the bodies of his friends. Inside of the café, he found only Bahorel. Bahorel was one of the biggest and the strongest members of the Friends, but Enjolras took him into his arms, nonetheless, and carried him down the stairs, across the room, and over to the place where Grantaire lay in painless sleep. Enjolras gently lied Bahorel down on the floor beside Grantaire, and for a moment he looked down upon his two friends, dead side by side. He remembered all of the times that Grantaire and Bahorel could have been found sitting at the corner table of this café, laughing, gambling, and drinking. In that time, Enjolras would get angry at them for this, but now the memory of seeing them there, knowing that he would never see them there again, made Enjolras's heart burn. Grantaire and Bahorel had been very good friends. It seemed right that now, on the day of their death, they were able to lie together and enter into the next life together.
He let out a heavy sigh, and looked around this lower room of the café, looking for his dead friends. He found Marius not far outside of the door, his face covered in blood from sword mutilations and thick, dark blood gushing out from the wound in his shoulder, where the bullet had pierced him. Dread and sadness twisted in Enjolras gut, even though he had already known that Marius was dead. Enjolras had seen Marius fall. Now, as he looked down upon Marius's lifeless body, his heart began to throb. He and Marius had been great friends. Marius had, also, ironically enough, been a good friend of Grantaire's. Grantaire and Enjolras had been opposites, but Marius was the link that fell between them. Enjolras kneeled down beside Marius body, and took him into his arms, carried him into the café, and laid him down beside Grantaire.
Enjolras then went out into the streets, into the bloody battle field, in the center of which stood the broken remains of the barricade. The sent of smoke still lingered in the air, but the repulsive stench of blood and of death was overpowering. It was still early in the morning. In the light of the rising sun, the sky was red, so it seemed as if the sky was reflecting the colors of this dead battlefield. The streets of Paris were painted red with blood, and the pavement glistened ominously in the light of the morning. The corpses bled, the streets bled, the sky bled. Bodies were heaped all around, the bodies of soldiers in uniform, the bodies of the citizens who had joined in the rebellion, and somewhere within all of these dead men, the bodies of the Friends of the ABC.
Enjolras searched through the bodies, often having to roll them over or drag them out from under the collapsed parts of the barricade so he could see their faces and know if they were his friends. It was hard to tell anyone apart out here. Everything was the same color. The sky was red, the streets were red, the corpses were red, their clothes were red, their faces were red, Enjolras was red in Grantaire's blood. He found first the bodies of the woman Éponine and of the little boy, her brother, Gavroche. These two had been the first to fall at the barricade, and Enjolras remembered where they were lying. They were not a part of the Friends of the ABC, but nonetheless, Enjolras carried their bodies into the café and laid them in the line. He laid Éponine beside Marius. She had died for him. She had loved him. At the barricade, she had taken a bullet for him. Just as Grantaire had taken the bullets for Enjolras. But in the end, Marius had been killed, too. Then he laid Gavroche beside Éponine, his older sister. Neither of these children, Gavroche of Eponine, had been given the life that they had deserved, but they were still brave, and strong, and ready to sacrifice themselves. Éponine for Marius, and Gavroche for freedom, just like Enjolras. Now, at last, Éponine and Gavroche were at peace to be together forever in a place of freedom.
He later found Courfeyrac, who was so friendly, so kind, and so generous, Feuilly, who was so hardworking, so brave, and so passionate, much like Enjolras, Joly, who was always so happy and in such a joyful mood, Bossuet, who had such bad luck but who only laughed and made merry of it. Enjolras had to search for quite some time before he found Jehan, sweet Jehan, who was so shy, so gentle, and so caring, as after the second battle, Jehan had been taken by enemy and shot quite some distance away from the barricade. But, at length, Enjolras found him. He found all of them. He carried them each into the café and laid them in line beside the others. Last of all, Enjolras found Combeferre.
He was lying not far away from the barricade, lying upon his back, his chest mutilated by multiple bayonet piercings, blood drenching his body, his face looking up into the red sky and to Heaven, his eyes still open but unable to see. Enjolras stopped and stood still in his tracks, as if frozen by fear, and he looked solemnly upon the body of this dead man. Combeferre had been Enjolras's best man. His guide, his advisor, his counselor, his partner, and his best friend. At the sight of Combeferre dead, Enjolras felt deep sadness and sorrow flood into his heart and closing in over it like dark clouds gathering in the sky before the storm hit. Enjolras slowly kneeled down beside his friend, moved a shaking hand over Combeferre's face, and closed his lifeless eyes. Then the rain came.
Enjolras felt that the bayonets that had pierced Combeferre, the bullets that had pierced Grantaire, the swords, the knives, the blades, the balls that had pierced all of his friends had suddenly pierced him in his heart. He bent over in pain, holding his chest with on hand and clutching at Combeferre's lifelessly body in his other hand. Tears came forth from his eyes, and he wept. He wept long and hard, his body shaking violently, his lungs heaving rapidly, and his heart trembling in grief. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, turning red as they ran through blood. He wept for Combeferre, for all of his friends, and for Grantaire, who had saved his life, and he wished that he could have died with them. For this terrible time, Enjolras allowed himself to be weak, and afraid, and confused, and lost, and in agonizing pain. But then he thought of Grantaire and a few of his last words to Enjolras: "I still believe in you." Grantaire still believed in Enjolras. All of the boys still believed in Enjolras. Enjolras would have to be strong for them.
He took Combeferre's still body into his arms, slowly got to his feet, carried him into the café, and laid him down beside the others. There. Now, the line was complete. Combeferre, Marius, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Jehan, Bahorel, Bossuet, Grantaire. Éponine and Gavroche. They were all there. All of the Friends of the ABC were there, and now they only waited for their leader to join them.
Enjolras gazed upon these dead friends, all of them lying side by side on the floor before him. Enjolras wanted to be with them now, but it seemed that his time on earth was not yet over. His friends would have to wait for him a little longer. They had all followed Enjolras into the battle. They all believed in him. At this moment, Enjolras swore to himself that he would not allow their deaths to go in vain. He would not fail them. He would not betray them. He would continue to fight for them and for freedom. He would keep fighting. He would try to be the leader that they all believed him to be. He would keep fighting for them, until he was able to join them in the free world that they all dreamed the earth to be.
He slowly walked down the line until he came to the place where Grantaire lied sleeping. He kneeled down before him, and gazed in awe upon his body. Now in death, he looked so peaceful and so beautiful like an angel. Enjolras let out a soft sigh and whispered to this dead man, "I will not fail you, Grantaire. I will not betray you. You will see."
"Grantaire, you do not believe in anything," Enjolras had said to him once, and Grantaire had replied, "You will see."
On the outskirts of Paris, near the edge of the proud forest, there was a green hill, where plants and wild flowers grew. Upon this hill there rested twelve stones, lying side by side in a straight line. These large stones were natural, untouched by the craft of men, but purely the devise of God. All of them were different, but all of them were beautiful. Some of them were white, others a marble black and white mix, and still some of them were large, smooth, and grey. These were not merely stones, however. They were graves.
Upon each of these stones, a single name was written. Gavroche, Éponine, Marius, Grantaire, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Combeferre. Below the twelfth stone, no body was buried, but upon it written by hand, in black ink, in letters that had faded over the years, it was written:
Here lies the Friends of the ABC. They were students. They were children. They were young and they were innocent. But they had in them the bravery, the courage, the passion, the will, the strength, the heart, and the love that it would have taken to deliver France from her bondage and into freedom. These were great young people, and now they will forever be martyrs of freedom. God bless them and remember them in His kingdom. I long for the day when I can be with you all again. I love you all, as I have never told you in this life. Vive la République. Vive vos esprits. Long live your spirits.