[Courfeyrac again, because I thought I should try and write a barricade death without being too sentimental.  (Yes, okay, I failed.)]

Who Cares About Your Lonely Soul?

Damn.  Combeferre’s warned me about looking out for bayonet thrusts, hasn’t he.  At least every twenty minutes since…well, time’s the least of anyone’s worries now, and I’ve no idea how long we’ve been here.  But then Combeferre’s warned me about almost everything I’ve ever done at some point or another and I’ve certainly never taken any notice before.  This time, though, I rather wish I’d listened to him.  Damn, damn it all to hell.

I’m glad he didn’t see the National Guardsman stop to notice that I was looking the wrong way as I shouted abuse at the cannons, nor his bayonet as it went into my chest, nor my face as I sank to my knees with my head bowed.  But just before I squeezed my eyes shut I think I saw Marius’ face turn very, very pale and the poor boy’s jaw drop almost down to his boots, and I think it must be his hand that catches my head as I fall dizzily backwards onto the ground. 

“Courfeyrac – oh God! – what happened?” Yes, it’s him all right.  I’m not going to open my eyes just yet though.  This really is all quite horrendously painful.

It’s rather difficult to speak just now, but I’m damned if I’m going to let him know that.  “Bayonet.  Combeferre warned me about those.”  Finally I look up at him, crouching down beside me and looking altogether quite horrified, and I don’t blame him, really, because there is, after all, an awful lot of blood around. “You ought to listen to Combeferre.  He knows what he’s talking about.”  This is all very out of character and I can’t have that, he’ll worry.  “Well, occasionally.”

He’s as grave as ever, and I don’t really blame him for that either.  “What can I do?  I’ll get Joly – ” but he abandons that idea, remembering that Joly’s suffered considerably worse than a cold in the last half-hour – “Well, Combeferre, then – ”

“Good God no, imagine the lecture I’d get.”  Actually, I’d rather like to see Combeferre one last time, but I don’t think I could stand to see the look on his face.  It’s quite troubling enough with young Pontmercy here.  “Marius, look, I’m not – well, to be honest, I think it’s a little late for all that, actually.”  I didn’t think the boy’s face could get any paler, but it manages to do exactly that, and those dark eyes are truly terrified now.  Now he’s here I quite desperately don’t want him to leave me, but he’s far too open to attack where he is, and I’m not putting up with that sort of thing at all, oh no.  “You’ll have to move, Marius.  I’m not having you meeting a bloody and pointless demise just because I’m spouting a death monologue at you.  Go on, now.”

But he’s not having that.  He asks if it’ll hurt if he moves me, and I reply that I don’t particularly care if it does, so he half-drags and half-carries me towards the best cover he can find, hurriedly takes off his jacket and pillows it under my head, and his eyes are considerably more melancholy than usual as he kneels next to me and looks down into my face.  “You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?”

“Just – don’t go away, that’s all.”  I feel as choked as anything but I’m not going to cry, I’m most definitely not – although good grief this is agonising – but perhaps the faintest vestiges of sentimentality are forgivable now, even for me.

“No – of course I won’t…”  There are definitely tears shining in those eyes now, though he dashes them away with his sleeve.  Probably a little bit late to worry about being over-emotional now, Marius, bless you.  “Courfeyrac, I’m sorry – ”

“Shh.  Give me your hand.”  He does so and I clasp it as tightly as I can, although strength isn’t something with which I feel particularly blessed just now.  “And don’t worry.  It’s quite all right.”  I have a brave stab at a smile and I’m quite proud of the result, under the circumstances.  “Always said I’d die with my boots on.  And I’ll never have to worry about an essay again – ” I begin, then realise that, in fact, I don’t remember ever worrying about an essay at all.

“It’s not all right!” he protests, leaning closer and looking something more tortured than I feel, because that’s what Marius does best and although any other time I’d have laughed heartily at it, now it makes me feel several orders of magnitude worse.

“No, it’s not.  But I always knew what I was getting myself into.  You don’t, even now.” And I’m not so sure that my eyes aren’t filling with tears now however I try to blink them away, which irritates me past all expression, and my voice definitely isn’t as steady as it ought to be, even if I close my eyes so I don’t have to see his face. “I got you into this, Marius, and I ought to try being responsible for once and get you out of it, but I’m not sure I could manage it now, quite.”  I risk a glance upwards at him and notice that there’s blood seeping through the cravat I inexpertly decorated him with earlier (where is Combeferre when you need him? – but no, I’m trying not to think about Combeferre, aren’t I), and I reach up to touch it with my free hand.  “Couldn’t even bandage your head properly, could I.  I’m sorry, Marius.”

“Don’t be stupid.”  We seem to have our roles reversed.  I’m rather proud of him; he’s been listening to me after all. “I – ”

“Ohhh no, you listen to me.”  I’m somewhat concerned about running out of time now, which is enormously vexing because if I’m going to die I’m going to damned well die saying something heroic, and I can’t be heroic just like that, it needs thinking about and I haven’t really troubled to think about it before. “You’re too young and too – ” I can’t think of the word, and wish suddenly that Jehan was here to supply me with it, but I’m not supposed to think about him, either.  “You’re too, well…Marius for all this, and – I haven’t looked after you all this time just for you to go and get yourself killed, you know.  You’re going to get out of this hideous mess if you have to be dragged out of it by your ears, only I don’t think I’m the one to do it, and you’re going to find that young lady you never stop daydreaming about and you’re going to be revoltingly, nauseatingly, sickeningly happy together.”

He still doesn’t smile.  In fact, he looks more anxious than ever.  “How can you even think of it when you’re…”

“Dying?”  I manage to smile, even if he can’t.  “If I keep talking I might start forgetting that I’ve just had a bayonet stuck through me.”  And for that I’m rewarded with that oh-so-familiar expression of horrified shock that dear naïve Marius always, always, always gives me when I talk a little too frankly, which is, I suppose, quite a significant proportion of the time.  “Cosette,” I say, vaguely hoping finally to wring a smile out of him.  “Isn’t that her name?”

“Yes.  But it’s all hopeless now.”  Poor Marius.  He averts his eyes disconsolately and I want to laugh, but I don’t think I can and decide not to try, because I don’t particularly want to remind the poor boy that we’re uncomfortably close to the last words we’re likely to say to one another.  He looks back at me, and knits his brows together a little.  “How did you know – ?”

“Heard you say her name in your sleep.”  I can’t quite help grinning at that, although it turns rather swiftly into a grimace because, really, this is all getting a little too excruciating for my liking.  “Don’t look so down, Marius.  There’s always something you can do,  ‘s just a question of whether or not it’s a good idea to do it.  And I’ll be nothing less than furious if you don’t, because you were meant for each other, or – ”  I catch the look in his eyes and remember that I’m not, after all, supposed to care about any of this even for a moment – “or something like that.”  He reaches across to take my other hand and looks more anguished than ever, and perhaps I’m not being quite so brave as I mean to.  “You’ll just have to trust me.  Is a little too late to tell you, really, I think.” 

And it doesn’t matter, really, anyway.  If he thinks I don’t believe in such sentimental nonsense, if he thinks none of this means a single thing to me, if he thinks I’m not every bit as capable of a broken heart as he is – I can’t change that any more, because the story’s too long and I really don’t think I have the strength to tell it, quite.  I manage to smile at him, and squeeze his hands, and give him a look which is, for once, unabashedly solicitous, and that’s about all.  “Now, you take care, won’t you?”

Wasn’t very heroic, but sincerity is often the best course of action in times like this.  And I only just see him nod slowly as a tear finally rolls down his cheek before I close my eyes, and as I do so I feel one of his hands let go of mine, and he runs it very carefully through my hair.  “There,” he mutters, only half to himself, “that looks better.”  And I really am quite glad that I just have time to answer with a smile.

(Told you I should stick to parodies – October ’02)

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