HAPPY BARRICADE DAY, EVERYONE.
I decided to insert a lil' one-shot in honor of our sexy barricade boys. May they never be forgotten!
Eleven Shots
"He's the leader. He's the one who killed the artillery man. Well, he's set himself up for us. He's only got to stay there and we can shoot him on the spot."
Aubin thought he might throw up, but there was nothing left to heave. There were twelve of them, all of them in a neat line, cornering this one young man. The student they had trapped could not have been older than twenty-five; perhaps he was two years older than Aubin himself. And here they were, two boys in a man's fight, one a leader and the other a pitiful follower of the National Guard.
Enjolras—that had been the name the revolutionaries were tossing around the barricade, and Aubin knew that this must be the man. He was tall and valiant and proud, seeming more ethereal than man. Aubin doubted that he would die, even if they should shoot him down as the speaking officer intended. His blonde hair shone from sweat, but his face was calm and definite, his expression of resignation and defiance set as if it had been crafted by the wise hands of a god.
Someone placed a knowing hand on Aubin's shoulder. It was his commanding officer; he looked up at the man, who nodded at him reassuringly. Aubin looked away, feeling ashamed for admiring the man that had probably killed more National Guardsmen than he could count on his fingers. It was too late to change sides . . . this was their fate. Aubin would live a coward, and this stranger would die a hero.
"Shoot me," the man said, his voice sounding as firm as thunder.
Aubin trembled at beholding him. He had never shot a man before; not even in the past two days, when they had all been fighting. He truly was dishonorable in his fear. No sooner could he have shot a man than to bear to be shot himself, and so he had spent most of his time staying away from the thick of battle, trying to avoid the bloodshed. How was he to shoot a man now? A stranger, no less?
"There was one of the insurgents whom I heard called Apollo," someone murmured nearby him.
It fit him nicely, Aubin thought. But it was not his name; his name was Enjolras, not Apollo. He was only a boy himself. Hell, Aubin was even younger than he was, and he was to help in his murder. Boys killing boys, friend against friend. Aubin looked into the mercilessly blue eyes of the great Apollo, and felt their gaze connect. Perhaps the man had nodded at him, but there crossed a tragic understanding in that unnoticed moment, before the people were roused from watching the leader's shocking demand to shoot.
"I feel as though I'd be shooting a flower," Aubin whispered, lowering his musket. His hands were shaking. He was a coward. He could not even kill a man who wished for death.
His commanding officer nudged him, but he did not budge.
"Raise your weapon, boy," he hissed menacingly, and Aubin shook harder, doing as the man commanded. Then the officer's voice rose, and he cried, "Take aim!"
Aubin closed his eyes, feeling sweat trickle down his face and tears well into his cheeks.
"Wait," another man, Yves, halted the company. He turned to the god and asked, with some pity in his eyes, "Would you like your eyes to be bandaged?"
The man named Enjolras did not move. "No."
Aubin could not help himself. "It really was you who killed the artillery sergeant?" he asked, hoping he could find this demi-god a means of escape.
The steely blue gaze descended upon him again, leaving him rooted to the spot. "Yes."
With that single word, Aubin felt himself spiral into a shame he had never known. Of course the man did not want his eyes bandaged; of course he would admit to his crime. For he was honorable, and he would die the death he was assigned. It was ironic, that the enemy should have honor where the National Guardsmen themselves had none. For the first time he could remember, Aubin questioned the side he was on. Perhaps he had been led astray.
His commanding officer opened his mouth to call for another aim, but they were interrupted by a drunken drawl of a rather disheveled looking man, who appeared from nowhere.
"Long live the Republic! I'm one of them."
He might have stolen the words right out of Aubin's mouth. Suddenly Aubin wished he could be with them, and die the martyr as the pair of them were bound to. He would rather die than be forced to kill. He would trade places with them in an instant. Aubin looked desperately around him, silently pleading with God that one of the men in uniforms had enough compassion to stop this madness. But they did not.
"Long live the Republic," the drunk said again, and placed himself right next to the god. He smiled wryly just as Aubin felt as if needles were piercing his heart. "Might as well kill two birds with one stone." He turned to Enjolras and added softly, "If you don't mind."
The demi-god said nothing, but smiled. His smile was beautiful. A work of art that could not be perceived by mere men. Aubin almost smiled himself, so surprised at seeing a wonderful sight, but then the muskets were raised all around him. His commanding officer nudged him again; harder this time, so that he almost toppled over, but he stood his ground however shakily.
"Fire!"
Aubin closed his eyes and pressed the trigger. But then he released it, gasping at the noise around him as the shots rang out and pierced his every thought into oblivion. "Oh, God," he cried, "I'm sorry."
The two men slumped over dead. They were no longer gods or drunkards, but corpses, leaking blood on the ground. Their faces were still smiling softly, their hands still clasped; but their skin was pale and their breath ended.
Aubin lowered his musket, tears falling down his cheeks.
"You listen to me, boy," his commanding officer seethed, roughly grabbing his arm. "You hesitate like that again and you will no longer have a position in my squadron. I am ashamed that I ever commanded you." The man spat at his feet and cast him aside, shoving him into a wall before leaving him in disgust.
Everyone else had left, but Aubin found that even with the officer's warning, he could not move. He was petrified, staring at the dead men. He could not count the bullets between them, and he was glad nobody else could.
"Forgive me," he begged of them before turning away, but he did not know what he wanted forgiveness for. The revolutionaries had been faced with twelve men with loaded guns, but only Aubin knew that there were only eleven bullets embedded in their bodies.
His commanding officer could call him a coward, but Aubin knew better. He would not kill a man, not here, not during this Revolution. Next time around, though, he would—but next time around he would be sure to choose the right side.
Long live Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Grantaire! Defending the Republic for the 175th time this year. If only I could marry everyone of you, with some Marius on the side . . .
-running in circles-