12
The night had passed without incident after the death of Prouvaire. The national guardsmen had left the barricade alone, much to the vexation of Enjolras. Perhaps they really did intend to starve them out before they began a proper fight, as Javert had said. The longer they waited, the cooler the fires in the hearts of the people became.
A few hours before daybreak, Enjolras had decided to go out and survey the other barricades of the city. He had slept very little and the dark circles beneath his eyes only served to add to the severity of his countenance. The rebels had run out of food, deepening the crushing sense of failure within their chief. Enjolras had been plagued by feverish dreams replaying Prouvaire's death, a death which he could not deny was his fault, and was kept awake with worry over Éponine and the revolution. Now, in his sleep-deprived state, he stalked through the streets like one of the stone lions of the Luxembourg Gardens: fierce, scowling, and more stone than flesh and blood. Though he ran into no patrols, none would have dared approach him had they crossed paths.
He made his way through each of the twelve arrondissements. Enjolras was met with a disheartening sight: the people had not stirred; the barricade at the Rue de la Chanverrerie was the only one left. Those who Enjolras had been counting on to hold the barricades of the other streets in the city had thrown down their arms in fear, been killed, valiantly and cowardly, or had simply refused to join in their crusade. With each abandoned pile of wood and bodies, Enjolras felt God chipping away at his marble heart, bitterness threatening to snuff out his passion for revolution. The people for whom he had intended to fight had failed him; he had failed his men; he was afraid of failing France.
Enjolras walked numbly through the streets, almost completely unaware of the ever-increasing light of the approaching dawn. He detachedly recognized that he had to make it back to the barricade to give orders, to explain the situation, and his tired legs carried him back through the empty city and to the inhospitable nest he and his friends had constructed less than a full day prior. Enjolras took little notice of his surroundings, his mind fumbling about in an attempt to find ways around the deaths of his friends. He walked without seeing until his attention was called back to the present by a rumble of hunger from his empty stomach. Enjolras lifted his eyes from the pavement and looked up, startled to find himself standing before the awe-inspiring grandeur of Notre-Dame.
The ancient and crumbling stone masterpiece held her head high, proudly watching over her city with a stern and motherly eye from her throne on the Île de la Cité. Despite the damage dealt to the glorious building in the multiple revolutions of the past half century, despite the increasing neglect of the people, Notre-Dame continued to stand firm and immutable. In the rosy light of the early morning, the good Lady of Paris appeared as a shining answer to Enjolras' pleading questions to God. She was determined; she was unafraid. It was as though she was telling Enjolras that this was what he needed to be.
"Your friends need their chief just as my city needs her mother. We do not have the choice to give up, you and I. We are fated to finish what we have started."
Enjolras was revived and his tired mind was no longer struggling to piece together rag-tag thoughts with no results, but was instead performing its usual soaring feats of mental artistry. A new speech was being crafted in his head. Not all is lost, not yet.
As the cogs in his head ground out beautiful words of encouragement and sacrifice, his neglected heart began its work of breathing life into the stone man. The sight of the church had brought thoughts of Éponine to the forefront of Enjolras' mind. Her face flashed before him, every moment they had spent together playing behind his eyelids; the scenes stopping on the moment where he had realized that she was his muse, the incarnation of France. His stone heart beat wildly. The burning desire to speak with her, to ask for her advice, to make sure that she was alright, and to apologize to her for endangering her and sending Prouvaire to his death struck him firmly in the chest like a cannonball.
These longings almost caused him physical pain but he wrote them off as hunger and exhaustion, unwilling and unable to process his emotions. Should he go inside and ask if they had admitted Éponine? Did Prouvaire take her to Notre-Dame, or did he go in the opposite direction? He wasn't willing to spend any more time away from the barricade; his determination and sense of purpose had returned with a vengeance. Enjolras looked back up at the glowing façade of Notre-Dame and, with a small smile, crossed himself reverently in thanks before heading to the Pont au Change at a limping jog.
"We're the only ones left."
"What do you mean, Enjolras?" Combeferre asked warily, his usual philosophical serenity disrupted by momentary panic.
"I mean that we are the only barricade left; the people did not stir," replied Enjolras, his tone level and his face its signature mask of stony calm, devoid of emotion. He looked each man before him in the eye in turn, taking mental attendance. Grantaire was still absent.
None of the insurgents would have guessed that, beneath the stone façade, Enjolras was crumbling. Whispers of confusion and concern rippled through the motley crowd of rebels gathered before Enjolras as he crouched on top of the barricade. He held up a firm hand, a silent request for his friends to follow suit. The gravity of his look and their situation stilled the ripples immediately.
"My friends, forgive me. Let us not waste the lives of those who have dependents; who amongst our numbers is married?" A fair amount of hands were timidly raised, but none were of the core members of Les Amis de l'ABC. Courfeyrac attempted to crack a joke about staying a bachelor to Pontmercy, but the latter never raised his eyes from the pavement. His skin was as white as a sheet.
Enjolras moved carefully down from his splintery perch and came to stand on level with the men. He planted his hands on his hips, his feet apart in a formidably stern stance. The look in his eyes belied this sternness however. His blue eyes were filled with unspoken apologies.
"I have gathered enough soldiers' uniforms to outfit four of you," he said with a stiff gesture to a pile of clothing in the center of their dirty little street that had gone unnoticed by the others until that moment. All stares followed his hand and, as their eyes took in the pile before them in the dim morning light, their brains tried to process what it all meant.
"But I don't wanna go, m'sieur," called an unknown working man from the back of the group. His confession was followed by others mirroring it. Although Enjolras had never exchanged words with the man he felt as though he knew his face, or at least the look upon it. The determined set of his jaw matched Enjolras' own.
Enjolras shook his head as a mother would to a child who has broken the last egg on the floor. He insisted that the married men choose amongst themselves, and ultimately five came forward asking to leave. His stone heart trembled sadly, as there were only four uniforms. Before he had the time to remind the men of this however, the enigma of a man from the night before stepped forth and dropped his borrowed uniform onto the pile.
"Thank you, monsieur," Enjolras said reverently. He owed this man more than he had ever owed anyone before. The stranger made no response, but patted Enjolras on the arm as a father would his son and then retreated back into the crowd.
The five married men dressed quickly, quite aware of the increasing light from the rising sun and the danger it brought with it. They were dressed and gone, slipping out through one of the last remaining openings in a back alley behind the Café. When the men had gone, Combeferre cleared his throat pointedly. The noise had the desired effect and caught Enjolras' attention. He turned his piercing gaze on Combeferre who was meeting his eye sheepishly from the front row.
"Enjolras, the rain's damaged the gunpowder; we're low on ammunition."
Suggestions of what to do to solve their problem were flung hastily from the crowd, all of the men understanding what a lack of ammunition meant for the likelihood of their survival. None of their solutions were possible however, and Enjolras reminded them that the sun was rising and of the army that was now focused solely on their lonely barricade. His monologue was underlined by the sound of boots marching towards the Café: the monstrous army had arrived. Any protests or pleas which the revolutionaries were preparing to make were cut short by a frantic cry from Courfeyrac.
"Gavroche! Gavroche, come back!"
The assembly turned and saw the tattered coattails of Gavroche disappear through a tiny hole in the barricade. Courfeyrac lunged after him but his arm was not long enough to collar the bold gamin. Enjolras' heart stopped when he heard the shifting of pieces of the barricade on the opposite side. Gavroche had emerged from the pile of scraps into no man's land, whistling a happy tune belligerently.
Courfeyrac bounded up the unsteady mountain, yelling unintelligibly for Gavroche to come back. The little boy paid his warnings and pleas no heed and, before beginning his work, turned to look back at Courfeyrac and gave him a mischievous wink. While his back was turned, a young soldier coldly took aim.
"Gavroche!" shrieked Courfeyrac, moving to jump from the top of the barricade, wanting nothing in the world but to shield him from any and all harm. Combeferre, who had run up after the frantic young man, grabbed his waist tightly to hold him back. The rest of the rebels were rooted to their spots in the street below.
Gavroche wasted no more time in setting about to his work and resumed his pleasant tune. It was some ditty he had heard a week before at one of his sacred visits to the theatre. He crawled around in the debris, gathering the precious ammunition pouches from the fallen soldiers who had become parts of the barricade the night before.
A shot rang out before he could nab more than two of the leather pouches of hope, but it missed its mark by a wide margin. The noise startled all but Gavroche and reduced Courfeyrac's shouts to sobs of fear. The bullet nicked a piece of the barricade, the sound of lead on wood echoing threateningly through the early morning silence. Gavroche turned to face the soldier who had fired the shot and made an obscene gesture, an innocent smile lighting up his dirty features.
"Don't you worry, m'sieurs," called Gavroche, undoing another pouch, "I've gotcha covered!"
The soldier took aim again as a hunter would take aim at a deer, his conscience silent. The report of a gunshot was heard again, and this time the shot was no warning. The bullet caught Gavroche in the shoulder, tearing a ragged and bloody hole through his flimsy frame. He hissed in pain and glared at the line of soldiers who were now well established in front of him. The innocent smile never left his face however, and he simply began to use his other arm to reach for the ammunition pouches.
"Don't pick on me just 'cos I'm small, you sons of bitches!" Gavroche called, his tone shrill and yet commanding. He met the heartless soldier's eye as he began to remove the next leather bag.
"I may be just a pup," he continued as the soldier leveled his gun at him for a third time, "but remember: the pup grows –" Gavroche was cut off by the sound of the third and final shot.
The vicious lead teeth bit into the tender flesh of the urchin's chest, making its home in Gavroche's heart. Courfeyrac wailed in anguish and, slipping from Combeferre's stunned grasp, half-ran, half-tumbled down the barricade, running blindly for the tiny exit to grab his little friend. Gavroche fell back almost instantly, his sparkling eyes dull and unseeing.
Enjolras watched Courfeyrac fumbling through the hole in their barricade, horror crashing over him. His thoughts flashed to Prouvaire and then to Éponine, and back to Gavroche. He had had a hand in all three – he was their Angel of Death.
When Courfeyrac reappeared, he was cradling the lifeless body of Gavroche. The blood of the gamin was staining Courfeyrac's hands and shirt. When he reached the middle of the group of rebels, Courfeyrac fell to the ground, broken by grief and racked by violent sobs. Combeferre and Marius were trying to calm him, but he only hugged the little boy more tightly to his chest. A shout from a national guardsman interrupted their grieving.
"You at the barricade, listen here! The people of Paris do not want your change; they reject your dawn and have shown this by refusing to join in your suicidal crusade. You are alone; you have no change – surrender, save lives and bullets!"
Enjolras' eyes flashed in anger. Until he heard the officer speaking he had been emotionless and unmoving, but his melancholy was evaporated by the fire of his indignation. He met Courfeyrac's tear-stained eyes and saw the same angry passion behind the pain and grief.
"What say you, men?" asked Enjolras, looking at Courfeyrac but addressing his entire little army.
"Make 'em pay through the nose!" Shouted Joly, uncharacteristically impassioned.
"Make them pay for every man," whispered Courfeyrac menacingly, clutching at Combeferre's arm for support to stand shakily.
"Vive la France!"
Enjolras was full of his overwhelming thoughts of majesty and of his beautiful vision for the future of France, as he had been before the fighting had broken out. His friends, their dedication to one another and to him, had inspired the resurgence of his old passion. His heart was singing with pride and with confidence within his marble chest. The fear of death flew from his mind and, in that moment, was replaced by a giddy acceptance of his fate.
"Let us die to set an example, to prove our point," he began, pouring the entirety of his soul into this, his final speech. "May this inspire others to rise, to take up the muskets from our graves and avenge our deaths – to avenge France herself Remember, mes amis, there is nothing more glorious than to die for your country."
He ended his monologue by marching up to the barricade and climbing into place, breathing heavily. Sweat was pouring from his perfect brow, both in excitement and in fear, and his chest was heaving beneath his ruined and open shirt. He was ready to avenge Gavroche, to strike back for Prouvaire, and to prove himself to France and to Éponine, and this purpose gave him the appearance of being surrounded by a divine light. The rebels asked themselves if the man before them was Apollo, and none were sure of the answer. In unison, the remaining men moved to take their place beside their chief on the barricade. They lifted their guns steadily, prepared to face destiny.
"Fire at will!" Enjolras dared the soldiers. The only response made was a shout from the army officer who had asked them to surrender.
"Cannons!"
A/N: Hey guys! Happy Valentine's day. I hope you like this chapter, sorry 'bout the whole death thing. /3 Kinda had to happen. I hope you guys have had a good week so far, and continue to have one (if not, I hope your week starts lookin' up)! Review and whatnot if you've got any issues or wanna leave some love - trust me, I live on this kinda stuff. You'll hate me in the next chapter, sorry in advance.
PS: Another shout-out to my lovely beta readers, especially IrishSongBird! She's wonderful, absolutely magnificent.