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“He hardly saw the roses, he ignored spring, he did not hear the carolling of the birds”
Marius had not lied, there had been a burst of light, only it hadn't come from gunpowder. It had come from a man. Of all the adjectives at his disposal, "radiant" wasn't one Enjolras would have used to describe Grantaire. Yet, here he was, resplendent of courage, almost to recklessness. Enjolras took his hand, feeling the warmth of the foreign skin trailing up his arm. His smile was not ended when the report resounded. Blown by the bullets, Enjolras lost the comforting touch of Grantaire. Aching from the loss more than the bullets, he felt himself fall backwards, anticipating the moment his spine would meet the hard and cold wall behind.
Such moment never came to be.
His hand, in the search of its new friend, groped around blindly. Surely Grantaire's couldn't have gone far, surely he could hold him until the very end. Something soft and fresh tickled his palm. Never had the words "blades of grass" ever been so ill-suited. There was nothing sharp about them, they felt like cotton under his fingers, if anything. His thumb brushed the hint of a flower and Enjolras opened his eyes.
The light of the sun did not dazzle him as he emerged from the darkness. It felt purer than any sunlight he had ever experienced, as though he had spent his whole life with a thin veil blocking his vision. It invited him to see at last. Enjolras' eyes fell on the green expanse first, its vibrance making it hard to ignore, before they noticed the bed of flowers he was lying on. He could see each petal, each vein running along them. He had never been one to stop and smell the roses, but, for once, he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet fragrance.
Suddenly, Enjolras' gaze drifted towards his chest and his stomach. No red roses had bloomed from the impacts of the bullets. His clothes had lost the grime of battle, even the tears in the fabric had disappeared. Enjolras tentatively raised a hand to his heart, where he was sure a bullet had pierced him. Finding his skin smooth and untouched, he understood.
He slowly took his red vest off and folded it carefully. He wouldn't need it anymore. There was no need to be a beacon, no need for leadership here. They parted like old friends.
No sooner had Enjolras laid the vest on the grass that the joyful hymn of a bird called for his attention. Tilting his head up, he noticed the canopy of a large tree, in which birds were singing and squirrels were playing. He had always thought Rousseau exaggerated his transports of delight whenever he described nature. Now that he was gazing properly, Enjolras found no lies or hyperboles to his prose. Not that he had never looked upon beautiful things, but his aesthetic pleasure had often been more mental than visual. His living self had seen beauty in ideals and concepts. His present self saw beauty in everything.
Laughter woke him up from his reverie. A few yards away, he saw Combeferre and Jean Prouvaire sat side by side, the former inspecting the flowers with interest, while the latter was busy weaving them into crowns. Jehan... Enjolras had been ready to trade his life against a traitor's. The smile on his friend's face somewhat soothed the guilt of a deal sealed too late. He noticed Joly's mop of hair behind them, the man lying on the grass, his head settled on Bossuet's lap. Pollen allergies surely didn't belong in heaven, Enjolras reckoned, knowing of Joly usual relunctance to approach fields and flowers during the summer months.
Was it was this was? An eternal summer month? Enjolras couldn't say he minded. He recognised the laugh he had heard as Gavroche's, as he spotted the gamin playing with Bahorel. The both of them were caught in a pretence of wrestling, the bigger man surrounding too easily to the boy's attacks. Across from him, Enjolras noticed a woman leaning against a tree, looking at the pair with the same fondness. Her features were vaguely familiar, but he couldn't put a name on her face. She was observing the jest one moment and conversing with Feuilly the next. Enjolras smiled and waved at them. He would have eternity to get to know her.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar outline of Courfeyrac, plunged in a deep conversation with another young woman whom he didn't know. The name of Marius and Cosette rose from their exchange, and though Enjolras couldn't piece the fragments together, he knew the story without having ever been told its details.
Something, however, was amiss. Or rather someone. Grantaire was nowhere to be seen and Enjolras' heart started to race in his chest. Who knew one could still feel fear, even in death? He surveyed the grassy expanse, looking for another shade of green altogether. As though he had sensed his distress, Grantaire appeared from behind the tree truck, his hand detailing the bark. He sat next to Enjolras and the former leader couldn't help but notice how healthy he looked, how rosy his cheeks were and how genuine his smile was. He smiled in return, a smile that would never be severed by bullets. A smile that could last for days, weeks and months. A smile that could last for an eternity, if he so wished.
Enjolras threaded his fingers with Grantaire's. That hand wasn't so foreign now, it had become an extension of himself. He saw the reflection of the sun shine in Grantaire's eyes, and his smile grew wider as he felt the gentle squeeze against his palm.
Then, truly, no one loved the light like the blind man.