~By Nelle Bolton (alias FlamingRose15)
They bear the old man into the cafe, the reality of death hitting him. Then they hear the calls.
Screams. Panic. Bullets. Blood. He races from the cafe with the others. He stands with them, side by side. He sees men fall around him, gunned down by those they may have once been friends with. In a different life. He watches Bahorel fall, a grin on his face, a bayonet to his chest. He sees Courfeyrac knocked to the ground where he lay unmoving. No! Nononononono. Please God, no! Not Bahorel! No. NO! Not Courfeyrac! PLEASE!
He fires at random, unsure if he hits anyone. Unsure of anything at this moment of panic and blood and death. They’re climbing the barricade! They’re going to breach it and everyone he loves is going to die…He freezes. That is all it takes…
He registers Marius’s arrival in the edge of his sight. Sees him save the little boy who hangs around them sometimes. Gavroche. Sees him save Courfeyrac. Not dead then. Not dead. Not yet. Not dead. The sun hasn’t quite gone out then.
Then he feels it. The tugging forward. Someone. A soldier. An ordinary man just like him.
Tugging him over the barricade…The hand over his mouth. The gun to his head. The ropes around his wrists.
They force him to kneel, gun aimed at him the whole time. He knows what it means. One
move and you’re dead. One sound.
He can hear the fighting behind him. They have forced him away. Away from his friends.
Away from his family…Away from Courfeyrac who’s wounded. Who needs him. Away from Bahorel’s…Bahorel’s corpse…
He can’t see what is happening but he hears raised voices. Gunshots. Marius. Combeferre. Enjolras. “Think your little friends will save you, pretty boy?” Someone leers in his face. He doesn’t react. He will not give them the satisfaction. He won’t give them a reason to kill him. Not yet. Not until he chooses to go. He keeps silent. “Think they’ll even notice you’re gone? Oh I bet they beg us to give you back. You’re like a little doll. A little girl with your long hair all nicely braided and your little freckles and, oh what’s this?” He is right in his face now and flicks at the flower he has tucked into his hair. It’s an iris. Rel gave it to him. Right before the funeral. He was going to give it to the General…
“A wickle flower, how sweet.”
The soldier is openly mocking him now. If only he knew…
He keeps silent, partially because he is aware of his resemblance to a woman and had been taunted about it far too often for the comments to bother him. Partially because he wants to hear what is going on. The fighting has stopped and he can hear people talking on the other side of the wall he helped build. He is forced to his feet but they don’t offer him a blindfold. That is good. He thinks that’s good.
He is terrified. And now he can hear them. His friends. Calling to him.
“Prouvaire!” A call. That is Combeferre. “Jehan! Jehan, where are you?” Frantic. Desperate. Courfeyrac.
He…he’s scared! Weak and scared! No. No, that’s not okay. He’s not allowed to be
scared…He should be happy and brave and kind. Because how is he supposed to be brave
if Fey is scared?!
He takes a deep breath. The time has come. He looks to the sky and smiles. He can still see the stars…
“Vive La France!” he calls. Loudly. Boldly. He hears a gun click next to him. But that’s okay. This is a moment of choice and this is his choice. “Vive La France!” he says again. The gun is pressed against his head again and he panics, but he refuses to let them see it. Or hear it.
He is a son of France. He will die back straight, eyes forward and unafraid. His voice won’t wobble or tremble.
He can hear them calling him. He hears Courfeyrac…
“Vive L’Avenir!” he calls and a sharp crack is heard. He falls to the ground in agony. Silent. He looks to the stars as he feels the life draining rapidly. So peaceful and distant. So beautiful…
Bahorel is waiting…He takes his hand…and goes with his friend…to the garden of the
Lord…where those who love can live in peace…
Soon all his friends will join him and he’ll be with Fey once more…
