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I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night. ~ Sarah Williams, “The Old Astronomer”
Jehan is not afraid of the dark, and Jehan is not afraid of the night. He remembers being confused when the other children in his town refused to walk home after nightfall, alone, for fear of something out in the dark that might hurt them. He remembers being bewildered that his parents would think it unsafe for him to be out alone after sunset, back when he was too young to understand about thieves and highwaymen and murderers.
Jehan thinks that it’s less that he’s not afraid of the night and more that he loves the night sky. There are more stars that he can wrap his mind around and more constellations and nebulae and beauty than even a poet’s well-trained mind and tongue can describe. He could stare at it for hours. As a matter of fact, he has.
Jehan has never been afraid of the dark, because the dark reminds him of the night and of the stars and the moon above him. As a teen, he told stories to his younger cousins and their friends when their parents didn’t come home from the fields on time, teaching them the stars and the myths behind them to keep them laughing and distracted. When he first arrived in Paris, he used to stop to comfort crying children in alleys who were afraid of the dark; though some of the stars he loves best aren’t visible in Paris’s sky because of the lights, he told them the same stories he told the village children to keep them from being afraid. Watching tears in their eyes turn to wonder started a thousand poems he finished and millions more he didn’t.
(Combeferre and Courfeyrac made him promise he wouldn’t stop for the crying children any more. There was only so much he could do, they told him, and it’s an easy way to get robbed or killed.)
(He only feels a little bad about breaking his promise once or twice a month.)
Jehan is not afraid of the dark now, though the mutterings he can hear around him as he sits on his knees make him nervous. He can’t see anything, but that’s alright. He’s not afraid, because it’s night out, and he knows what stars he would be able to see if he looked up. Hercules is up there, and Boötes with Arcturus shining bright, and Lyra with brilliant Vega, and many more. He’d really like to sit on the windowsill of his flat with his flute and play a concerto of his own devising for the constellations and gods, but no such luck tonight, he supposes.
Jehan knows that they’re asking him questions, but he’s not really listening. He knows his answer won’t make a difference. He wonders if the others would do otherwise in his position. Courfeyrac can charm his way into anyone’s head or heart, Combeferre can convince almost anyone of almost anything with his quite, confident voice, Enjolras has the natural command to make anyone do anything he wants. Bahorel would probably simply laugh.
Jehan continues to ignore the voices. They’re getting louder. He doesn’t care; they’ve already drawn all their conclusions. Besides, Jehan is thinking right now, and anyone with any decency would know to leave him alone.
Jehan remembers Combeferre leaning out his window with him, pointing out to him the names of the stars he didn’t yet know. Sweet, determined, deadly, gentle, learned Combeferre. Jehan could study for a hundred thousand years and still never know as much as Combeferre does at only thirty. He could take care of millions of children and still feel as though he was not as kind as Combeferre is when he braids Jehan’s hair and talks of everything and nothing. Jehan could win a thousand wars and still not be as good a fighter as Combeferre, only a worse man.
He jerks back to reality and hisses in annoyance when a hand falls on his elbow, then retreats into his memories again before he can register any other motions.
Jehan remembers Courfeyrac draping his arms over Jehan’s shoulders and nuzzling Jehan’s neck, remembers pressing back into the warmth of his chest against Jehan’s back through their clothes. He remembers Courfeyrac teaching him to dance, taking him to the theater, loving his poems. Good, warm, beautiful, funny Courfeyrac. Jehan could never quite crack a joke the way Courfeyrac could, but that’s alright, because Courfeyrac is Courfeyrac and Jehan is Jehan. He could smile every day of his life and not be as radiant or lovely as Courfeyrac, only more false.
He cries out as he is shoved to his knees, the first noise his voice has made in a while. He doesn’t like this; the stone under him is rough through his trousers, his wrists and shoulders ache, and he still can’t see. He’s not afraid of the dark, he never has been. But he doesn’t like being in the dark like this.
Jehan wonders what Enjolras would think of him now and hopes that Enjolras, brave, noble Enjolras, will only ever carry the memories of him with pride.
The blindfold is removed and the first thing he does is look up. It’s dark out and, yes, there are his stars.
A man is standing in front of him, he notes vaguely. The man is saying something.
“Any last words?”
Jehan realizes those were important words that were just said, and these will be important too. He meets the man’s eyes.
Jehan smiles.
“Vive la France! Vive l’Avenir!”
When his shoulders hit the ground, he can see the stars above him again, and he is not afraid of the coming dark.