A Different Morning on June 6, 1832.

Overly Devoted Archivist Uncategorized :(, les amis, les miserables 0 Comments

storytellerluna:

jehanjetaime:

• Enjolras surviving, though not succeeding. Retreating after a long battle to heal, hiding away somewhere safe. His speech, quiet yet strong, as Les Amis mop, sew and patch themselves up is not of grand struggle and the greater meanings of their actions. It is a private thanks, words of pure gratitude to his friends, who fought bravely, sacrificed for their coming world. It is individualized, tired eyes locking onto each bleeding, suffering hero. His voice breaks more times than anyone can count.
• Combeferre wearing a pair of glasses stolen from the pocket of a dead guard too close to the barricade. His own were broken, and these are not perfect, but he needs to be able to see in order to sew up gashes and set bones with whatever they have.  He’s working himself to the bone, ignoring his own wounds and his friends urges to please, sit down.
• Joly working by Combeferre’s side with only one arm fully functional, tying wounds with ripped shirts and sashes. He knows that this is begging for complication, but with their situation, this is all they have. When things have calmed down, when some are more healed than others, someone can go for better supplies, but for now he bends his head and whispers words of encouragement to his aching friends.
• Courfeyrac with a bandage over one eye, which gets crinkled and threatens to come off with each wide smile as he tries lessen the mood, as he tries to keep spirits as high as possible. He keeps his back turned on the motionless shapes under a red flag in the corner of the room. If he thinks about anything too hard, his grinning veneer would crack.
• Bahorel cannot smile. He cannot do anything much than try to breathe, try to live. His chest bleeds and aches, and he does all he can to keep his eyes open, not ready to close them one last time. He is promised life, told that, as far as they can tell, vital organs were miraculously missed. His face contorts as he TRIES to smile.
• Feuilly instructs his friends as much as possible; a life on the streets has taught him a good many skills, including how to patch up wounds without much in the way of supplies. He uses a found thin pole as a crutch, his foot mangled and useless to him. He does not have a fix for that, but announces that at least his hands remain untouched, and he will live to work another day.
• Bossuet is soaked in blood. Only some of it is his. His wild eyes are lost and confused, and he keeps glancing to Joly’s arm. He is not laughing, but speaks to Musichetta. She is not there. When this is pointed out to him, he whispers “Just my luck,” and draw into himself. Everyone keeps an eye on him.
• Marius who is missing. Marius who was taken when things look bad, Marius in Jean Valjean’s care. None of his friends know, and Courfeyrac has to be restrained from going back to search for him, or at least bring his body back.
• Jehan Prouvaire laying on a table near Bahorel, eyes glossy and mouth dyed red and pink with frothing blood, but Holy God, he is alive. Somehow how Jehan is alive, dotted with constellations of bullet holes. Forceps and forks have pulled what they could from his body, every delve into flesh a concern that they would pull the last breath from his body. In the early morning, a bird chirps outside.
• Gavroche’s body is underneath a red flag, lifeless. Someone placed his hand in that of his sisters, two corpses doused in blood, both with the frozen smiles of death on their faces. Gavroche holds an empty ammunition case in his other hand, emptied by his friends once his body was retrieved. He would not die in vain.
• Éponine, long dead, head tilted up, was captured by Feuilly’s hand in a quiet moment on the barricade. Her portrait now sits on a table near a wine bottle of flowers. Now one knows where they came from, but there are leaves plastered to the heels of Gavroche’s hands.
• Grantaire lays on her other side. His corpse is riddled with bullet holes, from the front, then the side, then the back. The only blood that is not his own dots his fingers, from the brief moment of contact when he pushed Enjolras out the the window, thinking that he was to find more luck with a fall than at the guns of the guards. He did not see the flag Enjolras carried, the flag which now covered him, catch on the window sill, leaving Enjolras to safely lower himself to the ground, to plan a retreat with a newfound bravery. Grantaire’s last act, in saving Enjolras, had provided the others with a chance to escape. All Grantaire knew was the bullets ripping through him. Laying over Grantaire’s still chest is a stained red vest, dotted with every floret and the medals someone had stripped from a dead guard. No one can look his way.

why you have to kill Gavroche yo