Update! Hurray! I know my description of Jean Prouvaire is a little unconventional, but did Victor Hugo say what he looked like? No, he did not. :p
Thank you for all the reviews! They keep me motivated!
Much love,
Unicadia
A portrait of Jean Prouvaire. Jehan. A rough, angular face, and stubble on his chin, one would think him a fighter like Bahorel. But his sweet, vulnerable eyes bespoke of his youth and his gentleness. His long hair tumbled around his shoulders, knotted and free – like his spirit.
Firelight glowed on the barricade. Marius looked fierce, like a demon, the torch casting strange shadows across his face, the gunpowder keg squeezed in his arms. Jean Prouvaire watched, in a trance, oblivious to the fact that the fire cast similar shadows across his own angular face. His breath came up from his lungs, shallow and raw. The terrible, horrible, beauty of the moment overwhelmed him, and his arms relaxed, his rifle hanging harmless by his side. He stood apart from the others, taking them all the in – the soldiers, half on the barricade, staring in horror at Marius, of all people; Bahorel's dead body cast beneath them, melting into the shadows, bloody and vulnerable; Feuilly, partially on top of him, frozen, the fire lighting upon the traces of tears running clean lines down his dirty, gunpowder-black face; Enjolras, hovering behind Marius, staring up at him in pride, and perhaps with even a little fear; and Marius himself, poised on the highest point of the barricade, carrying in his hands all their fates, life and death, and beauty.
Jean Prouvaire, so enamored by this scene, never heard the soldiers coming up behind him in the cold darkness void of firelight. They hit him in the head with the side of a rifle, and as he staggered, his brain swirling, they pulled him over the barricade, and the others did not know it.
Through the blackness they took Jehan. He felt a warm wetness on the side of his head, and he instinctively moved him arm to touch it, but he couldn't because the soldiers dragged him by his arms. The dream begun by Marius and the torch and the keg of gunpowder went on, at least for Jehan. He felt nothing. He was aware of the pain in his head, the dizziness, the disorientation, and the tear in his shoulders as the soldiers pulled him along, but these all felt far, far away, and strange.
At last, they stopped, and he heard words, spoken among a group of men, but he did not know what they said. They heaved him to his feet and tied his hands behind his back. The rope cut into his wrists, but he did not notice it. They pushed him against something, a wall, their hand bruising his skin. He saw their shadowy figures, moving like ghosts, and the distant firelight of the barricade casting over them. The ghosts assembled themselves, and he heard a chorus of soft clicks. He blinked, and looked back at the light, so far away now. He blinked again, and his brain formed a thought at last, How did I get here?
"Do you wish to be blindfolded, boy?"
Jehan did not answer. A tear ran down his cheek as he gazed at the fire.
"Boy, answer me! Do you wish to be blindfolded, or not?"
Jehan's voice, emotionless and empty. "Why would I wish to be blindfolded?" He did not remember deciding to say the words, or actually saying them himself, but the words appeared in the air between him and the ghosts, and they hung there, shivering in the warm night.
"You are going to be shot, for traitorous acts against His Majesty."
"But why would I want a blindfold?"
The ghosts trembled, and beat at the words. "If you do not wish to see your death."
Perhaps they did not say it so beautifully. Jehan stared at the ghosts, and made out their rifles. Beautiful words, but a bit inaccurate. Rifles were not death. They were steel and other tangible, material things. You could not touch Death. Death came in the black of night and swept you away. Could you see it? Jehan closed his eyes. He saw fields and clouds and endless roads, and fires on barricades. He smiled. Yes, he could. And it was beautiful.
He opened his eyes. "No."
"'No' what?"
"No blindfold."
"Very well." A pause, then, "Fire!"
The world exploded, and he saw fire again, beautiful fire, enveloping him, warm and welcome, beautiful fire, beautiful death.
And then –
It stopped.