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Blood. Everywhere. Its sickly-sweet tang invaded his senses. So much of it, suffocating—
No, it was… wine. Right. Just spilled wine. For a moment, it—no matter.
They… they're gone now, aren't they? It was quiet here, should have been quieter—so why did it feel loud?
Marius rubbed his hands over his face, pressing his palms harder and harder against his eyes until dancing light patterns burst there.
Inside, Cosette’s laughter rang out, a light sound that tugged at his heart, yet he couldn’t bring himself to step through the threshold. She moved like an angel caught in sunlight, glowing at the edges, unfocused. He thought of how Enjolras had looked in the last light of the barricade—blinding, righteous, almost untouchable, blond locks lit up like an halo as he commanded the revolutionaries.
Today, she was finishing her wedding veil. "Just a week—oh, Marius! Then I will be yours! What could possibly be better?" she cried out gaily as he entered, her voice melodic yet surreal. The light of her smile caught him briefly—then somewhere, just behind him, a whisper rustled softly.
“Liberté (1),” answered a voice he hadn’t heard in months.
His own madness shouldn’t be a source of comfort, yet he felt oddly reassured, almost relieved by the familiar, gentle voice of the ever-rational Guide. He half expected to feel Combeferre’s hand on his shoulders, grounding; it never came.
“Citoyen …(2)” he whispered, unable to stop himself. His voice sounded shaky and small, an echo of a melody, an inadequate mimicry. He could hear Enjolras’s voice—strong, firm, tinged with displeasure at the world for not aligning with his ideals. Citoyen, ma mère est la République (3). Cosette, startled, glanced at him inquiringly. Marius averted his eyes, offering no explanation.
He thought he felt Enjolras’s gaze on him, brief, demanding, just before the final shot.
“Did you say something?” Cosette prompted haltingly, peering with concern at him, her carefully folded lace angled toward the window, catching the light.
“No,” Marius murmured. No.
His fingers brushed a wall. Plaster crumbled, revealing not brick, but the barricade's splintered wood. When he pulled back, his fingertips were rust-red. He smelled gunpowder. Where was he? Why was he here? Oh, right—he was here to sacrifice himself among his friends, to put an end to his meaningless life, since Cosette had left him. No. That was… that was… weeks… months ago. The barricade has fallen. Rue de la Chanvrerie(4) was safe and clean, it should be—yet why did the bricks seem to bleed, dark crimson seeping from their cracks?
He couldn’t breath, the air around him like molasses, vision swimming, streaked with red.
“Feu!” (5)
The sound of gun and cannon roared in his ears, rattled in his skull, so loud it hurt. He had to get away, he had to—
A sudden, dull pain throbbed in his temples. A bullet…no. He blinked, willing his sight to clear and focus. A lamp post. He…ran into a lamp post. That was all.
“Are you all right, Marius? That lamp post never should have crossed your path! It's clearly jealous of your literary romantic brooding. Come now, Marius, let me help you duel this lamp post properly. En garde!” (6)
Marius couldn't help a smile from forming. He swatted lightly at his snickering friend, momentarily lifted from his brooding. "Tais-toi (7), Courf—" His breath hitched violently, his voice trailing off into silence.
Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac…Courfeyrac, his stomach scissored open by three deep slits, tousled blonde curls matted with blood, slumped against the wall……
His smile cracked and froze on his face.
“Courfeyrac……”
His gaze dropped to the chipped pavement. Courfeyrac was…of course. All of them…all….
But why did he live? Oh mes amis (8)…my friends, my friends forgive me, that I live and you are gone…
He didn’t know how he stumbled back to his house.
“M-Marius…? Mon fils? (9)”
Marius jolted, glancing up, to see his grandfather hesitantly approaching him, nervous and eager to please as he had been since Marius came back. He nodded, trying to move past the old man.
“Er-my boy…” Gillenormand was floundering, unsure of how to approach his grandson, tentatively reaching out. “Perhaps that Napolean fellow did have some spirit after all…”
It would have meant much to him back then, this concession. Yet all he could think of now was how the sunlight dusted Gillenormand’s gray strands a brilliant gold, how those hawkish eyes glinted… he could see them turning a stormy blue, could hear a familiar, disproving hiss… “Buonaparte? That tyrant?”
Marius blanched, giving a noncommittal shrug, shouldering past the bewildered old man to flee to his own room, muttering an excuse about needing rest. Gavroche’s youthful chirp, humming La Marseillaise, lulled him into an unrestful sleep. He vaguely noted the melody fraying into the rattle of a dying breath as he drifted into dreams.
“Chaque étoile saigne, mais luit encore,
Un chant d'espoir embrase nos morts.
Portez nos rêves, vents de l'été,
Que demain fleurisse, sans jamais s’arrêter.
Sous les ombres étendues, puissiez-vous entendre:
Vive l'avenir!”
(10)
Vive l’avenir (11)…Jean Prouvaire’s smug recitation morphed into a half-formed cry of defiance, cut off by the crack of a bullet.
The world spun. The bar seemed to shrink upon him; its walls folded inward like the jaws of a trap. Gun shots echoed endlessly in the suffocating bar, the scent of gunpowder forcing a retch out of him; screams, cries, yells filled the cramped room, blurs of movements so fast he couldn’t keep track. He could only see people falling, the thud of yet another corpse falling to the floor: a sickeningly steady rhythm among the chaos. Blood from someone splayed across his face, thick and hot. A hand shot through by a bullet briefly flashed in his periphery as Eponine fell limp against the pile of bodies. He wanted to run to her, to explain what he hadn’t managed to finish, to tell her he saw her as a friend, to demand why she would protect him as this length even as she knew affection wouldn’t be returned, and then Bossuet was shoved against him, a dagger in his chest, Joly smiled eerily as he slumped against the wall, a bullet through his head—
The sight blurred, their faces collapsed into writhing shadows, eyes frozen wide.
No. No. NO-
He could see Combeferre reaching for one of the wounded, trying to pull him—or was it her? —into the inner chambers, within the last line of defence. A scream tore from his throat as two spears found their ways into Ferre’s chest, as the man raised his eyes to the sky before collapsing.
He could see Courfeyrac. The world slowed as the soldier raised his knife, brought it down-Marius felt his throat burn as he shrieked again, scorching liquid on his cheeks—blood or tears? Did it matter? — as he reached out in vain, lunging instinctively. He can’t see this all over again and do nothing, he can’t-
He felt cool, smooth flesh.
“Marius? Marius, are you alright?” Cosette’s voice seemed a world away, evidently distressed.
He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Marius accepted the glass of water and stared hollowly at the wall, pliant as a rag doll as hazy figures fussed around the room, checking his temperature, muttering about fever.
“Joly would fret again…”
His murmur was drowned as one of the doctors started ranting to his grandfather about drug treatments for post-traumatic disorder. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
It was pain that finally broke through his nightmarish haze, a dull, throbbing pain. His hands flew to his collarbones (12), finding only a healed, old scar, yet it seared with an agony that had been dormant for months.
He stepped inside the Corinth Bar, the jagged fragments of what was left of the staircase to the second floor jarring painfully in his sight . For all the time he had dreamt of this place, the actual site… soothed him, for some reason. It held a comforting note of finality. He bent to pick up a torn, blood-stained tricolour pin from the floor.
"Lo and behold! A miracle! A prodigy! The prodigal son has returned to us! Quick, Joly, verify that this apparition is, in fact, flesh and not a fever dream brought on by your last cold remedy!"
His head jerked up, an incredulous laugh bubbling out. Courfeyrac. He could see him, right there—skipping gaily towards him past the ruins of the café. Joly popped over, giggling.
“Someone fetch me smelling salts and a stethoscope—oh, wait, I don’t own a stethoscope. Well, Marius, come here! Stick out your tongue, and I shall diagnose you with a terminal case of Being Absent Without Explanation!"
"Citizens, take note! Marius Pontmercy, the Great Romantic General of Love, has deigned—nay, braved—to descend from his heavenly bower of sighs and poetry to join us weary mortals once more! His absence has been mourned by lamp posts, pastry carts, and I dare say by yours truly more than I care to admit."
Was this a dream? Surely, it cannot be true—yet Marius couldn’t care less now. Relief so intense it hurt flooded him. All that mattered was the bob of blonde curls between his fingers and the oh so real warmth of his friend in his arms as Courfeyrac dragged him into an embrace.
“Courf, you’re going to suffocate him.” Ferre’s weary yet fond reprimand made the “kitten” pout but step back reluctantly, eyes still sparkling joyfully.
Enjolras paced around the room, his displeased ranting echoing.
“There is no true liberty, not even here. We crossed the threshold of eternity only to find the same rot, the same compromise! They speak of paradise, Combeferre, yet where is the justice? Where are the scales held aloft, blind and impartial? Where are the chains shattered? I see hierarchies—still—cloaked in light instead of ermine! Seraphim bowing to archangels, martyrs ranked by the spectacle of their suffering... Is this the reward? A celestial monarchy draped in gauze? Liberty is absent even in heaven!”
“……Enjolras, mon ami (13), you have spent only moments here and already you make war on eternity itself. Only you could look at the literal heaven and still find room to argue for improvement.”
Enjolras looked very much inclined to further debate this point, but Combeferre’s amused, slightly exasperated smile made him pout and turn away instead.
Marius was not religious, yet it was with the utmost sincerity with which he prayed for this dream to last longer. He walked towards them, as if in a trance. For the first time in months, he felt… at peace. A sense of belonging, as if he was the last piece of a puzzle, fitting perfectly among his friends.
“Come and join us, Pontmercy! The wine’s better here.” Grantaire tipped his bottle at him, grinning sluggishly. “What’s the use of living anyway?”
What’s the use of living anyway? The rhetorical question echoed uncomfortably in his mind. Was there truly a purpose to trudge through this torturous life, when its happiness mocked him?
Like an automaton, he moved forward towards his friends.
“You look pale—oh! Are you alright? Don’t faint—let me check your pulse—hold on-”
He felt Joly’s cold hand around his wrist, searching, pressing, his youthful face frantic with worry. A strange, fond sort of warmth spread in his chest. He’s fine—the best he has been in months, in fact. He couldn’t be better.
The pattern of the rough rope felt soothing, grounding, as he toyed with it between his fingers. Where had that come from…? No matter. All that mattered was that they were all here, so real it couldn’t possibly be his imagination. Words stuck in his throat; he wanted to say something, anything, to ask them why had left him behind, to ask for forgiveness, yet all that came out was a broken, choked-out sob.
He could feel a chafing, burning pain steadily growing just below his chin. His vision fuzzed, unfocused, blackening, the rest of the café fading into darkness. Yet his friends were all the clearer, closer. Courfeyrac beckoned at him impatiently, tugging at his sleeve; and who was he to deny that little golden retriever? He was among them, finally, finally, relief and anguish so thick and hot his heart throbbed—oh, how he had longed for this, what he wouldn’t give for this! And now…he’s with them.
Cosette’s horrified scream tore the world in half.