Work Text:
Jehan Prouvaire had always been an idealist. They had always dreamed of far off places and a wonderful existence far grander than reality. They were a romantic at heart. Perhaps most significantly; they dreamed of revolution. They dreamed of a France free of tyranny and monarchy. Not nearly to the extent of some of those they called their dearest friends but it was still there. It was still a furious fire that burnt deep inside of them. If they felt like that then others had to! There were more than just the eight of them (plus Grantaire)! If they all came together; if they were all united then they could be unstoppable. It had been done before and it could be fine again!
There was a large difference between dreams and realities. In dreams, you had control. You had goals you could manipulate and achieve. Reality was scarcely so easily navigated. It was not made of such flawed logic. Dreams belonged to the creative. Reality belonged to the logical. Prouvaire had long since learned to balance both. They were known for their...oddities. A true romantic at heart in regards to poetry. An idealist. There had also been the few occasions they had dabbled into the occult. The few seances they had attended had certainly been...enlightening. But they were indulgences. They were optional. Their life did have necessities. Food. Water. Sleep. Revolution . The last word in particular burned bright in their mind.
The biggest difference between imagining a barricade and standing upon a real one was the fear. In dreams, you could escape whatever grizzly fate awaited you. But not here. The barricade trapped you as much as it did protect you. It kept you safe from enemy fire but it also gave you no escape. It was a honey trap for revolutionaries. Both an asset and their downfall. Though, none of them knew it was their downfall at the time. There is unity in building the barricade; in breaking furniture and wood to build something new. It was poetic in a way. Perhaps...Perhaps their new world would be like a barricade. Stable, strong, and built up from the remnants of what was left behind; there to protect those that needed it most. It was made even more reassuring by the presence of their friends. They took a gulp from the bottle of wine Grantaire offered them. They joked with Courfeyrac. They even managed to get a smile from Enjolras as they read their latest poem out loud. It was unknown to them at all the time but that would be the final poem of Jehan Prouvaire. None would ever hear it again or see it bar those upon the barricade. After all, blood had a tendency to ruin paper.
In the end, it was carelessness that killed Jehan. Once the fighting had begun, they became as lost as their friends. They were lost amongst violence and bloodshed unlike any they had ever seen or experienced before. The battle around them felt almost senseless. So much was happening at once. Enough that they didn’t notice the hands grabbing them until it was too late. At first, Jehan had mistook them for the hands of their friends but they weren’t dragging the poet towards the barricade. No, they were dragging them away. They were dragged away from those they knew and into the unknown.
Jehan had never thought themself to fear death. After all, it was one of life’s inevitabilities. Everyone lived and everyone died. There was no escaping it. The battle between life and death was as old as the universe itself. But perhaps they hadn’t thought they would be facing it so soon. Perhaps they had thought that they could actually win; that they could grow old and live the rest of their life in a free France. Perhaps Prouvaire had been foolish enough to believe in a happy ending. They weren’t foolish enough, however, to pretend they didn’t know why they were taken. Jehan was going to be made an example of. They were going to be a warning of what was to come should the others keep fighting.
As they were pushed to their knees, Jehan held their head high. As their wrists were bound behind them, they smiled. As the guard spat on them, they laughed. They laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Perhaps it was. This was their end and they would not give their killers the satisfaction of fear. They didn’t even give the guards the satisfaction of words. Instead, Jehan just watched them with a morbid satisfaction. Then finally one of the guards stepped forward and offered to blindfold them. Prouvaire nodded once. So this was it then. This was the end.
“You are entitled to last words. Use them carefully.”
Use them carefully? What a strange notion! They were in the middle of a revolution! There was no time nor need for ‘careful’! No, this was a time for defiance. It was their last stand. Jehan may not have been holding a paper or pen but perhaps...perhaps this could be their last decree. Their last stanza. The End of Verses. Thankful for the way the blindfold hid the fear in their eyes, Prouvaire opened their mouth to speak. “Vive la France!” Jehan all but screamed the words. They wanted their friends to hear them; to know that Prouvaire had been loyal until the end. “Long live France! Long live the future!”
A single shot ran out.
Then Jehan Prouvaire knew nothing but darkness.
When they cleared their bodies from the streets, some would stop and stare at those of the students. The supposedly brave young men that had lived and died for what they believed in. Some would look at the still bound and blindfolded body of Prouvaire. They would note the soft smile still on their face or the crimson red that clashed against the ginger of their hair. And when one of them reached into Jehan’s pockets, they would find what remained of their final poem. Most of its words were lost to the blood that had soaked the streets but one word remained. In clear, cursive handwriting read a single word; hope . The paper was placed back into their pocket to never be touched again.