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Chapter Text

Oh, poet of the revolution, flower of the cannon,
How you fought that prideful day,
Surrounded by friends, screaming about liberty,
Smelling the blood and powder all around you.

You were brave, standing for what was good:
Liberty, equality and brotherhood.
The students had screamed those words for days,
Believing to be great, to be inmortal.

What did they mean, really?
What did they mean at the barricade?
To write a sonnet no one will read,
To sing a melody no one will hear,
To fight for a cause that is already dead.

But you stood there, tall and unbreakable,
Unshakable and so afraid,
Screaming and crying, but fighting still.
Until you were taken away.

No friend could save you,
No friend could see you,
But you did not yield.
You stood before those
Who had killed your brothers.

There was no trial, just the blindfold,
Only the sight of a rifle.
But you looked up, and saw the sun.

There is was: magnificent and eternal,
Shining over you, warm and kind.
And you remembered one last truth:
Just like a day might end and start the same,
Liberty would not die that day,
The people would rise again.

And so you smiled.
And so you cried.
And so a last shout was heard at the barricade:
“Vive la France! Long live the future!”

Chapter Text

In Asturias there is this myth, which tells that, in every litter of wolves, a dog is born, doomed to kill its brothers and sisters, doomed to obey the man that uses him to hunt, doomed to never question the authority above him.
¿But what happens when one of the wolves destined to die survives, against all odds? ¿What happens when the dog searches for him, relentless?

The wolf may grow a soul, as the say, thanks to the compassion of the one who feeds him when watching him starve, uncaring of the possibility of being bitten.
The wolf may treat others alike, changed by the sympathy no one showed the dog.
The wolf may respond with kindness to the cruel questions the ones above him ask.

The dog may hunt still, unchanged, for no one believes in the need to look in the eyes of a creature born to serve.
The dog may think still that he is doing right, for the destiny the ones above him wrote for him must be the destiny he is to follow.
The dog may refuse the doubts in his mind, for questioning his life is to betray his very nature.

And so both of them live the lifes they believe are destined to them.
And so both of them serve who they are owed to.
¿But what happens when they meet again, at odds, both destined to be the one left standing? ¿What happens when the life they believe was correct is shown to be flawed?

The wolf may try to do good, determined to live a life of virtue for those around him, still indebted by the memory of the one who cleaned and loved his soul.
The dog may hesitate to follow the fate he thought was unchangeable, doubting for the first time the words those above him said all those years ago.

¿What happens to him, you ask? That is for La Seine to tell.

Chapter Text

One day we may be free.
One day we may walk with no fear,
With no regret and no sorrow,
For our lifes will be great,
And we will be brothers, family,
United against the unfair.

One day we may be free.
One day we may shout and yell,
Fighting for the rights of man,
Certain we will live another day.

One day we may be free.
We may leave behind the dark days,
When children wept and women starved,
For out lifes will be great,
And we will be brothers, family,
United against the unfair.

One day we may be free.
We will see the carved words of the fallen:
“Vive Le Peuple”
And we will remember
The ghosts of the revolution
That fought for our freedom.

[Letter found June 6th, 1832]

Chapter Text

Stars are the guides that bring sailors to shore, the light that persevere in the night, the force of nature that is eternal and unchangeable, turning and turning each year, but coming back over and over. They are the maxim of perfection, the proof nature is not lawless chaos, but a beautiful show of saintliness.

A young boy new this too, seated at night, watching these righteous sentinels protecting the night while he stayed in a cell, near his mother, waiting for dawn to come back. They were his anchor in this limbo he had to bear, the ones who taught him what his mother could not, for she was one of the wicked in a world that was rotten because of them.

At least, that was what he heard the guards say, and he knew the guards were right. They were the ones to protect the good and fair, keeping the others away, at bay, unable to come back to a life they did not deserve.

He would be like them, a guide for the lost, a light in the dark, a sentinel keeping watch in the night. He would become one of the good, of the deserving, and he would forget the time he had to call the gutter home and a criminal Mom.

Chapter Text

Oh, red flag of the revolution,
Metaphor of blood,
Sign of the future,
Anchor of men.

You stay high, waving in the wind,
Above the ones who fight for you,
Above the ones who die for you.
Elegant and pure, the muse of the people
Who hope for a new dawn.

You may dissapear once and again,
Taken by the ones in power
Who will never let liberty live,
But you will rise all the same
Thanks to those who still believe in you,
In what you represent and stand for.

Oh, red flag of the revolution,
You are inmortal and divine,
An idea doomed and blessed to never die,
For the ones who fight for you
Will be the ones whose hearts stop,
But whose fight goes on.

Chapter Text

The night was cold and merciless that winter, bringing the ferocious wind of the north, which got into the bones, and the snow of the black clouds up high, which created a curtain of white that made the world seem lifeless.

Fantine had been walking that day since morning, trying to find a place in which to stay without being yelled at or kicked. Her clothes were thin and ragged, and every breath she took was harder than the last.
Giving up on her research, she entered an alley, harsh but with enough darkness for other pedestrians to not notice her until morning.

At least, that was what she thought.

Not half an hour had passed when Fantine heard the sound of footsteps approaching her. She curled on herself, trying to make herself disappear.

When the person was a few feet away from her, she could only whisper, with her throat hurting from the winter and eyes downcast.

“Please, leave me be. I’m not hurting anyone”.
The person crouched by her side, resting a hand on her shoulder, even after Fantine flinched.

“Are you hungry, love?” the person asked. Fantine, surprised at the question, looked up, seeing the person at last: it was an old woman, short and with white hair, a soft smile adorning her wrinkled face. “The place where I live is not far from here, you want to come with me?”

Fantine did not react at first, but the lady’s eyes didn’t lose their warmth—if anything, they only became softer, patient. She helped Fantine on her feet once she made her decision.

The woman’s home was but a room, filled with only a mattress, a small wooden table with a half-melted candle on top, and a window at the very back.

Fantine settled herself in a corner, scared of taking too much space. The woman did not seem to mind, if she noticed at all, as she was using the table to put there the bag she had had with her when she found Fantine, settling the food that was inside. Fantine could see a loaf of bread, a piece of cheese and a canteen.

“Are you hungry, love?” she asked again.

“No, thank you, madame,” Fantine tried to refuse, but the woman had handed her half the bread and cheese already, siting next to her. “You really don’t need to…”

“Oh, please,” the lady cut her off, biting her cheese. “If I minded giving you my food, I wouldn’t have taken you here in the first place, now, would I?”

Fantine, confused but grateful, decided to keep quiet.

“Now eat everything and drink. Then, come to bed—there’s space for both of us there”, the lady said. She then rised and laid on the mattress, unbothered.

Fantine, alone again with her thoughts, looked at the piece of bread the woman had given her. It had not been made that day, and both the texture and flavour leaved a bitter aftertaste in her mouth, but it was the first time in weeks since anyone had looked her in the eyes without disdain or pity, the first time she had been looked at as a person, the first time someone had thought of her as worthy of kindness.

Quietly, as to not bother the woman, Fantine cried. From sadness or happiness, she was not sure.

Chapter Text

Is it possible to change your fate?
To change your ways and find a life of good?
To leave the rot behind
And face the new dawn with an open heart?

Perhaps, it is true.
Perhaps, if one is shown kindness,
If one’s soul is touched by love
And a second change is given with no fear.

Maybe, that way, one can do the same.
Maybe one can be loving in return,
Feeding those who starve,
Treating those who are hurt.

That way, union can be reached.
That way, others can find the light as well,
Finding a new meaning
And a new hope to live.

Is it possible to change someone’s fate?
To change their ways and help them find a life of good?
To help them leave the rot behind
And face the dawn with an open heart?
Perhaps, it if worth to try.

Chapter Text

When he woke up, the first thing Grantaire noticed was the smell of gunpowder and damp. Then, the sound of rain outside the Musain.

It took him a moment to react and get off the table. If the bottles around him were something to go by, last night he had drunk much more than usual, though he didn’t really care. He had had worst days, even if with a better hangover.

For a moment, he just stayed resting on the table, rubbing his eyes, trying to remember what had happened last night, or why there was so much silence inside the café.

Right, why was there so much silence? The Musain was always filled with patrons, drinking and laughing, like Les Amis twice a week, and he, too, the rest of the days.

Les Amis… what a group. Always debating, always writing, always thinking about the next way to make fools of themselves while they thought for a future that would never come. But they kept fighting, with a determination Grantaire loathed in himself, but which he adored in his friends. Maybe they would never reach their goals, maybe they were fighting in vain, but they kept going, unstoppable, with a brightness in their eyes that Grantaire envied and admired.

Brightness… brightness like Apollo’s, fine marble, with those eyes filled with passion for the world but disdain for him. He never talked to him, never asked anything of him, never expected anything of him, because he knew Grantaire would never do anything—he would stay in the shadows adoring from the outside, but just that.

At least, until Barrier Du Maine, when Apollo, finally, after a thousand pleas, let him go, not because he had faith in him, but because there was no one else left to do it. Grantaire had promised, sworn, that he was useful enough to do something, for the first time in his life, for others.

And what had he done? Play dominoes.

Grantaire almost laughed. Then, his headache came back, stronger.

Grantaire wasn’t good enough for a cause, much less one like the revolution Apollo dreamed of. He was only good enough to stay at a table, drinking and laughing with the rest of Les Amis while Apollo ignored him.

And yet, Grantaire kept asking, begging: “please, let me stay here.”

“Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying."

Well, he hadn’t been wrong. After that, he had gone back to the Musain, taken a bottle of wine, and drunk all his beliefs, thoughts and willingness away. Now only his life remained, and that wasn’t worth much.

But, when had that been? He remembered the days prior, when Les Amis had been talking about the revolution more than usual, singing songs of rebellion, counting men and weapons as if they were actually going to...

Going to…

No.

Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, Grantaire rose from the table, letting the bottles roll around the floor without care. He didn’t care about the sound of rain, he prayed his brain was making the smell of gunpowder up, he begged the universe his memories weren’t real.

When he got to the ground floor of the Musain, the first thing he saw was the blood scattered around the room. Then, the broken furniture and corpses he could see through the window.

Grantaire let himself fall on the stairs. His legs were weak. He didn’t care.

He still thought this wasn’t real, that he was dreaming, that any moment now Courfeyrac or Jehan would wake him up to bring him back home after another of their meetings at the Musain, that his headache would be better than his heartache now, that the lady of the place would look at him with gentleness, but he would only care about the eyes of one man, as always. Apollo would be there, reorganizing his notes for the millionth time, alive, looking at him with the same disdain as every night, beautiful and alive, like all his friends.

His friends were okay. His friends were alive. His friends weren’t dead and he hadn’t abandoned them. This wasn’t real, and any moment now everything would get back to normal.

He wasn’t alone. He hadn’t abandoned them. He wasn’t a coward and a drunkard, and his friends were okay, as always, happy and alive. He hadn’t abandoned them, and they weren’t dead.

A dry sound made him come back to reality. It was like the sound of something falling. Something heavy.

With weak steps, Grantaire turned around the stairs, walking towards the back of the Musain.

What had fallen wasn’t far.

There, at the back, was the body of a man. A blond man with a red vest. A man with a slender figure, the same one Grantaire had drawn so many times in secret.

Grantaire couldn’t get close to him. Even after this, after all this, he kept being the same coward as always. He couldn’t give Enjolras one last dignity, facing him to the sky.

Grantaire sat on the floor, slowly, feeling the blood, dust and glass around him. The smell of gunpowder and iron drowning the place, making him want to throw up. The sound of the rain, outside the café. The view of the man he always wanted to adore, but could only follow, dead.

Later, at some point, he would get out of the Musain, walk around the damp streets of Paris through all the shops and houses he knew, until he got home. There, he would grab a bottle of wine and drink. Maybe, he would even use that revolver his father had inherited him so long ago.

For now, he would stay here, seated, watching blood dry.

Chapter Text

Eponine could see Gavroche running through the dark streets of Paris from where she was, walking, hand in hand with Azelma. It was the night of Halloween and, fortunately, this year they had been able to go trick-or-treating.

The last few years, their father’s B&B had been too full of drunkard and screaming children for Eponine and Azelma to get away from work, but now, with the B&B gone, the lack of work was a small grace from the lack of, well… work. Eponine had been able to find a few rags and create a little pirate costume for Gavroche, and Azelma had made those angel eyes to their mother long enough for her to let them leave.

Now, on the cold, damp streets of Paris, with the houses and shops adorned with ghosts, pumpkins, spiders and all kinds of other over-the-top decor, with Gavroche bouncing around, happy as can be with his half-full bag of candy, with Azelma by her side, eyes soft and smile, for once, genuine, Eponine had to admit, at least to herself, that things could be worse.

They may have parents that stole and yelled, they may have had to become friends with criminals, they might have had to become thieves themselves so their parents found a use in keeping them, but they were together. And no matter how much they hurt, how much they cried or how much they had to bear a life they didn’t ask for, they still had each other to rely on, always, until their very last breath.

Chapter Text

Valjean had not expected life at the convent to be quite this way.

He had expected harsh glances from the nuns, hard work on the garden and little time to spend with the little Cosette. He had come to terms with it. He was not here to enjoy borrowed time, but to make sure Fantine’s sweet child was safe before his time came.

But, instead of that, this holy place had welcomed him with a life he did not believe to be deserving of. The nuns were not so harsh as simply polite from the distance, keeping their company to one another, as well as Cosette, who they taught in their school, while letting Valjean and Fauchelevent work at the garden.

The work itself, he admitted to himself, was not short from a delight. Tending the garden was far from the hard work he had had to endure on his time in prison: the sweet smell of the plants surrounded the place, the ground was soft and forgiving, and Fauchelevent’s company kept his mind tethered to reality.

This job, too, left plenty of time for Valjean to spend with Cosette, his little girl, who grew prettier and smarter each day. She loved to visit him at the garden and narrate with all kinds of details the subjects he had learned that day with the nuns, telling him her conversations with the other children as well. She had nothing but lovely words to say, and each second he spent with her was a second he stopped regretting the life he had led, for it, at least, had given him the chance to find a daughter.

Chapter Text

Oh, mischievous child,
Young and naive,
Believing to be above the bullets,
Believing to be above Death.

Oh, how you left the protection of the barricade,
Of your family and friends.
How you stepped into the territory
Of the ones who refused liberty.

Oh, how you sang revolutionary songs,
Mocking the king and law;
Looking at those guards in the eye,
Unknowingly dooming yourself to martyrdom.

Oh, how the bullet pierced your chest,
Stopping the heart that had so bravely
Fought for what was right and fair,
Letting for friends mourn you.
Letting your country forget you.

Did that sacrifice amount to anything?
Did the death of a child help the fight of the adults?
One can only ask history.

Chapter Text

Grantaire looked up at the canvas in front of him from the floor, mind as blank as it. He had been trying to paint for hours, trying to find the perfect subject, that flick of a lightbulb in his head, a mere idea that seemed worthy enough to be painted by a man that was already half-drunk.

For weeks, he hadn’t drawn a single line. Not at his apartment, not at the streets, not at the Musain… His mind was completely empty, unarmed of a single thought.

Or, rather, he only had one thought.
He sighed at the reminder. Took his bottle of wine and sipped.

He did have an idea, but just the one, and that idea wore red, had amazing cheekbones, and looked at Grantaire as if he were less than a cockroach every time he laid eyes on him through the room of the Musain.

Enjolras—the man of the revolution, the light-bringer, the fine marble—had decided to become his Galatea as well. With those deep eyes, that sure posture, those speeches about liberty and union, which Grantaire didn’t believe in, but which left him breathless all the same.

He didn’t know when this… obsession of his had started. Maybe it had been that day when he had laughed just loudly enough at one of Enjolras’ lectures for the man to finally meet his eyes, even if with disdain. Maybe it was the night when Grantaire had drank too much, as always, and the man in red hadn’t yelled at him, but woken him up, almost—just almost—with care, to bring him home. Or maybe it had started the first day he saw him, at the streets, with fire in his eyes and righteousness in his voice. Grantaire had laughed then, thinking this man mad for believing such frivolous speeches would actually work in a world were humanity’s very nature was selfishness. But then… then Enjolras had looked at him in the crowd, and asked “will you join us?”. And Grantaire, well, he had never been one to make good choices.

So he did follow them, follow him. He never believed in the revolution, and he would never believe in it. He had seen too much of this world to become one of those idealists. He only went there to pass the hours, to leave the apartment that never felt like home, to feel like, for a change, his life was worth something, if only because he looked at the light from the shadows.

And look at the light he did.

Grantaire rose from the floor towards the kitchen, bottle of wine in hand. If he moved of room, maybe his brain would move on from these thoughts.

It didn’t.

An hour later, Grantaire was now sprawled on the kitchen’s floor, the cold of the tiles matching the cold of his chest. This was his third bottle. Or maybe the fourth, he wasn’t sure. Things always got blurry at this point.

Enjolras’ face didn’t become blurry in his memories, though. His brain had made sure of that, like all the other nights.

Grantaire laughed at himself, humorless. From where he was, he couldn’t see the canvas, but he knew it was still there. Still blank. Still doomed to be the portrait of a man made god. Or martyr. Or both.

He could remember the first time he had drawn Enjolras. It had been months after he had joined Les Amis. Jehan was by his side, writing a poem of his own; Combeferre and Courfeyrac were discussing some plan or other. Enjolras was in the centre of the room, beautiful and fearless, as always. Grantaire’s heart had been relentless, like a child’s when he’s doing something he knows he shouldn’t; and in a way, Grantaire was doing the same. And yet, he opened his sketchbook, portraying the man in red, the leader of the revolution, his Apollo.

He drew the vest hugging his slender figure. He drew those fiery eyes looking at the people around him. He drew that golden hair, which Grantaire had longed to caress since the first day. He drew his ambition, his power, his strength. Or at least, he tried.

He remembered, bringing the third or fourth bottle of wine to his lips, that that day he had longed to stay at the Musain while the rest of patrons left and Enjolras stayed, arranging his notes like after every meeting. He had longed to go to him, to speak with him—about the revolution, about their dreams, about their desires… It didn’t matter so long as Grantaire could hear Enjolras’ voice one more time. He had longed to get close to him, to cup that sharp jaw, to cover those lips, which spoke of justice and fairness, with his, which tasted like booze and smoke.

Of course, he hadn’t done any of that. He had only put his sketchbook inside the inner pocket of his jacket and left before Enjolras could give him a glance. Later, at his apartment, he had opened the sketchbook again, looking at the portrait that didn’t meet his eyes.

Maybe, he had looked for a bit too long.

Maybe, that night he would look again.

Chapter Text

When Eponine had asked Gavroche for help to prepare a little celebration for Azelma’s birthday, she hadn’t expected him to be so… enthusiastic about it.

It had started with the idea of a little treat: some balloons, a cake bought from the store, maybe one of those books her sister liked to read so much…

Currently, the living room seemed a modern art piece called Of Color And Other Lies, there was a pumpkin pie being made in the oven because “that’s Azelma’s favourite pie” (Eponine could not deny nor accept that statement), there was a pile of books Gavroche had found somewhere resting dangerously close to some candles that were definitely not safe, and Eponine was praying to whatever divinity was up there that their parents didn’t get back home until night.

“Azelma will love this!” Gavroche exclaimed.

“Azelma will get food poisoning,” Eponine said under her breath.

The boy didn’t listen. He was too busy watching the pumpkin pie, of what passed for it, growing all the larger inside the oven, with bright eyes and a smile adorning his face.

The sight made Eponine stop for a moment.

It was true that this was far from a perfect birthday celebration for their sister: neither of them knew what they were doing, it was fairly likely Azelma would hate the presents but pretend not to, and their parents hadn’t even remembered this day. But at the same time, this had been an opportunity to spend time with her brother, and no matter how awfully this could turn out, she knew Azelma, being the angel she was, would appreciate every second of it, because at least they had each other, and if this didn’t turn out to be a celebration of birth, it could be a reminder of the years they had ahead of them, which they would spend together, forever.

The pumpkin pie would taste like shit, though.

Chapter Text

“May I?” Cosette’s voice had softened, her eyes gentle, as if speaking in more than whispers would break the moment that, accidentally, undeniably, they had created that night. Though her eyes where on Eponine’s, her hands was reaching hers, shy, as if scared she would break her by the gentlest touch.

Her touch, when it came, was just as soft as Eponine had imagined. She cooped her hands as if they were something holy, something dear. Her breath hitched for a second when Cosette started tracing her scars.

“I did not remember you had hurt so much.” Of course, she referred to their time as children, when Eponine had lived a life of pleasure while Cosette was treated like a dog, neglected and abused for the sake of no one. The memory made Eponine try to leave Cosette’s touch. She girl held onto her.

“These are from later,” she replied, not daring looking at her in the eyes. Cosette let out a soft “oh,” looking at their hands, now intertwined.

When Eponine did the same, even in the low light of the candles at night, she could see even the smallest differences. Cosette’s hands were smaller, softer, almost like a lady’s, but the scars in them betrayed a past of work that, although had marked her, was now gone. Eponine’s were rougher, tanned by the hours on the streets; her scars were bigger, meaner, like cruel reminders of the life she still had to bear.

Cosette lifted Eponine’s hands to her lips, almost reverently, as if they were the proof they were here, together, alive and loving. The kiss she pressed in them was not the kiss of a lover, but the kiss of someone devoted.

“Beautiful,” Cosette said. And for a second, just a second, Eponine believed her.

Chapter Text

Oh, barricade cow,
How are your calves holding on?
Have they left your secure hold yet?
Have they discovered what the world looks like yet?
Have they been sent to the slaughterhouse yet?

Oh, barricade cow,
How I grieve your sons,
Who will die without the honor
Of a fair fight.

Oh, barricade cow,
How I grieve your daughters,
Who will live without the honor
Of a fair law.

You are what is left to protect your calves,
But you will not be there for them.
The slaughterer will not hesitate
To take your life to take theirs.

You are a faithful mother,
But you are just a cow,
Born to serve those who enslave you.
Born to see your children die each year.

Oh, barricade cow,
How I wish you were free
From this farm and farmers.

How I wish you were in nature,
Raising your calves in love and freedom.
Loving them, for they are the future of the world.

Oh, barricade cow,
How you know the truth of the future.
How I wish the farmers knew as well.

Chapter Text

Would your life had changed, girl,
Had you been taken away?
Away from those unloving ones,
Away from those unwanted crimes.

Had that sweet man taken you as well,
Would you have been different?
Would you have read, played and laughed
Instead of fighting to stay awake one more day?

Would you have known peace and love
In a world where that little girl
Had taken your hand too?

You were condemned to a life of misery,
Away from all that is good and holy.
You will never know the life you were forbidden of,
But in those cold nights,
Away from the screams and lashes,
You may question what would have been,
Had that lucky girl and man that day
Taken you as well.

Chapter Text

How the students looked up
To the man of war and justice,
Who had given his life to the people
Until his very last breath.

How they looked up to Lamarque,
Fairest of all men,
Fighter of monarchs
Who wanted to take the people’s freedom.

How he was grieved on his death day,
When all the students wiped for the man
That had given them hope
For a brighter future.

But that future was not left to die,
For the students had a larger goal:
To fight a just fight,
Reclaiming what their mentor had represented.

They may have died,
They may have screamed,
But the memory of their leader had not disappeared,
For it is the dead who live forever
In the memory of the living.

Chapter Text

No night is eternal.
No darkness is infinite.
It may look that way when you are scared,
Alone and helpless against the world.
But even if you curse your life,
Even if you ask why you are here,
The dawn will come once more,

You may feel now
The coldness and whispers of the hurtful.
You may feel your end is near
And you have no place in the world,
But remember nothing lasts forever.
The dawn will come once more.

We will create a just and kind place,
Where fear and pain are forgotten
And the laugh of the innocent can be heard.
We will live again in freedom,
For even the darkest night will end
And the sun will rise.

Chapter Text

That day, the Thénardier kids had not had to help their parents “work.” It was a hot day of Summer, and the day before the kids had gained enough money for their parents to let them stay at the cool shadow of what was their home for, probably, the next few weeks.

Gavroche, bored and overcome by the heat, had started spinning the few coins he had, juggling them between his swift fingers, not missing a beat. When he saw his sisters on the other side of the room, Eponine reading a book he had found somewhere and Azelma trying to fix the tear on her dress, an idea occurred to him.

“Hey,” he called. His sisters turned to him. “Watch.”
Leaving the other coins on the table, he put one on the palm of his right hand; then, he moved his left above it, theatrical. When the hand was lifted, the coin was not there; he went towards Azelma, and the coin was behind her ear.

“Wow!” Azelma said. Eponine merely smiled at the boy.

With a smile, Gavroche did other tricks. He made the coin change its pattern, made it disappear inside a cup and the table. He took the others and arranged them differently without a single touch, he made them appear in different parts of the room, and guessed which side it would land on when Eponine spun one.

The siblings laughed at every trick, enjoying both the theatricks and each other’s company. For a moment, they forgot a bit of the heat, a bit of their home, and a bit of their luck.

After all, they were just three kids passing the afternoon on a Summer day. What had they to worry about?

Chapter Text

In the garden of a small house,
Hidden by the parks and buildings around,
Lived a merry girl with her papa.

The girl had been a lark,
Flying from here to there,
Always quick in her step
For the rage of the ones at the inn.
She had never sung,
For her voice had been stollen
And hidden away,
Out of reach from all.

But a man had found her, at last,
In the coldest Winter night of all.
He had carried her away,
And she had come with him,
Leaving her old voice behind
For the hope of a new one to find far away.

And so the winters had gone
And the Springs had come,
Bringing with them flowers and blooms
That the little girl could take care of, too,
Learning what is to love, as her father showed.

And love and be loved she did,
Letting time and flowers go by,
Knowing more would come,
Just as Winter and wind swore.
She was not afraid of them, no,
For the thunder and storm
Could not harm her inside her new home.

Thus, the little girl would smell the flowers,
Watering and caring much,
Welcoming the changes nature would bring,
Not scared of what they would mean.
And so the little girl was called a lark,
And so the lark to sing began.

Chapter Text

Have you ever felt like your soul is ripped in two?
Like your life is incomplete, for you miss something
That seems out of reach?
Have you ever felt struck by a sudden longing
You know you will never suffice?

Maybe you are like the cynic,
Who knows and amazes before his other soul.
He thinks “what a marble,”
“What a god,”
For he knows the man in red will never look
At the eyes of one who would never
Let himself believe in anything.

Maybe you are like the idealistic,
Who does not know of his other soul.
He thinks it is inexistent,
Useless,
For he knows love is only for the ones
Who have no goal in life
And prefer to drown in quick delight.

Maybe it was love at first sight,
For you saw the face of divinity
In the eyes of the one who screamed for liberty.
But you never dared see past that beauty,
For doing so would break your heart,
Because, let us hear:
Who could ever believe in a nonbeliever?

Maybe it was love at last sight,
For you saw the face of loyalty
In the eyes of the one who stayed aside.
And you never could see past that façade,
For doing so would break your heart,
Because, let us heart,
Who could ever love the unloving?

And yet, you had stepped to his side.

And yet, you had taken his hand.

For you saw each other in the eyes,
Seeing the longing, faith and loyalty.
Your hearts would stop,
But they would not break,
For you had your other soul by your side.
Maybe too late.
Maybe for nothing.
But you would look at those eyes
Until blackness came,
Dying by his side
As the most loving act of all.
Do you permit it?
I hope you do.

Chapter Text

The dust settled when the battle was done.
The screams had ceased,
The blood was drying out.
And amongst the gore and vice,
The guards, keepers of peace and order,
Were counting the corpses.

They saw their faces,
Young as they were.
Just school boys,
They had heard say.

Had the silence in the streets been worth it?
Was it really peace, and not silence, what was ordered?
Was the blood in the hands of those guards,
Taken from those who had wanted justice,
A fair price to pay for the law?

It had to be, for that was their job.
They were not paid to think,
But to get the work done.
But even so,
Amongst the vice and gore,
There was one guard
Who crossed himself
Before the ones who tried to make the world fair.

Chapter Text

Does the revolution end once the battle is done?
Are its people dead, forgotten in history,
Thought to be nothing but dreamers
Whose dream died by their side?

It might seem that way,
But there are moments,
Albeit small and weak,
When history repeats itself,
And faith comes to be.

The leader lives in those who are unafraid
Of fighting for what is fair.
Those who protect the innocent
And defend the victims of hate.

The guide lives in those who are sensible
And live to help and bring safety.
They wonder what is the best path
To make sure a bright future comes to us.

The centre lives in those who are loving
Without needing anything in return.
Union and brotherhood is in their veins,
And they will die to support their kin.

The poet lives in those who are hopeful
And have no fear to show their love and faith.
They picture a tomorrow so beautiful
One can only believe it is fated to be.

The worker lives in those who are unbreakable
No matter how harsh and cruel life might be.
They hold on to fight beside their brothers,
No matter the cost it might bring.

The caretaker lives in those who are gentle
To the ones who were broken and betrayed.
They protect all the ones in need
Without caring about their background or deeds.

The optimist lives in those who are cheerful
And accept all that life might bring to them.
No matter how unfair it may be,
They always hope something grate will come, still.

The fighter lives in those who are determined
To stand for what is right and fair.
There may be pain and kicks,
But it will be worth their liberty.

The cynic lives in those who are questioning
The value of the power above them.
Those who dispute authority
And let themselves stand tall instead of bow.

They do not live in the people in history,
But in each person’s soul and mind.
Their fight might had died,
But ours has just began.
So remember to be brave
And not let your hope get lost.

We will always rise again,
No matter the circumstances,
No matter how little the chances.
Hope will remain,
And the people will prevail.

Chapter Text

The night at the barricade had settled like a storm that had not yet decided to leave. Some of the students were taking watch at the borders, riffles by their sides and eyes sharp on the look for any threat. The rest, like Feuilly, were trying to rest, or pretending to. He had given up on both long ago, and so he had carved a sentence on the wall: “Vive Le Peuple.” It was not much, it was barely anything, but he had the hope it would remain, if only for weeds to grow inside the words.

When he let down his hand, almost satisfied with his work, he heard it: a few meters from him, Jehan was resting on some kind of nest made from raged clothes that seemed almost comfortable; the poet, of course, was reciting verses, as if soothing himself to sleep with words of flowers and valleys.

Feuilly crawled towards him, too exhausted to walk. When he reached the other boy, he let himself fall softly onto the poet’s chest, finally hearing the steady heartbeat he was so afraid to lose. Jehan brought a hand to his hair, caressing it. For a moment, it seemed like he was trying to comfort them both.

“How are you feeling?” the poet asked. Of course he did.

“Alive,” Feuilly replied. Then, holding Jehan with an arm around his waist, he asked: “can you keep talking? I’ve missed your voice.”

He could feel his smile before he heard it in his voice.

“Sweetheart, little sweetheart mine:
Wake the bagpipe—dance around:
May is stealing through the vine
With her promise—Hope is found.

Love is over all the land:
Wake the bagpipe—dance around:
To its breath our hearts expand
Where it rises—Hope is found.”

Slowly, very slowly, Feyilly fell asleep, feeling, finally, his heart full and their lifes safe. There, in Jehan’s arms, he could believe they would be okay; they would fight and they would live, leaving this place behind to create a world where no citizen, no person, would ever live in fear or regret. And they would stay together, as it was their fate.

After all, Jehan’s voice had always had the gift to make anyone believe in the imposible.

Chapter Text

The days around Christmas had been the worst. Cosette would watch every kid in the streets walk with glee, hugging their parents and signaling at the windows of shops, asking for present after present, while the adults smiled to themselves, merry to know what a family felt like.

Cosette had never known what that felt like. All she knew were screams, beatings and harsh glances, while she watched the girls of the house laughing between themselves at the idea of all the toys, dresses and jewels they would get.

She had been sure no one would ever bring her anything. She was not important enough for anyone to remember her, or good enough to deserve it. She would only look at the chimney of the inn, where three shoes would lie, but only two would have a coin in the next morning.

And so she had lived in the shadow of life, watching others live, letting herself stay in a far-away corner.

And so it had been, until he showed up.

Suddenly, Cosette’s world was not a line of work and pain, but a world of possibilities and freedom.
Suddenly, she, too, looked at the windows of the with hope and excitement. Suddenly, she woke up on Christmas day with glee in her heart instead of weight. Suddenly, her life was more than shadows and impossible dreams.

Suddenly, she had someone by her side—someone loving and kind. Someone that would never leave her alone, that would never scream or smile at her pain, but who would tell her fairy tales at night and would hug her when the memories of the past became too much.

Suddenly, she knew what a family felt like.

Suddenly, all that was left to wish for was for this to never end.

Suddenly, the shadow that had controlled her life was away, for all Cosette could see now was the brightest light of all.

Chapter Text

What would you do for your child,
Were they in need of a help
You cannot provide?

Would you sacrifice your own riches,
Knowing they might be hungry or ill?

Would you sacrifice your body,
Knowing they need more than you can give?

Would you sacrifice your sanity,
Happy knowing they will thrive?

Would you sacrifice your life,
Hoping they might be able to forgive you one day?

To be a parent is to be selfless.
To be a parent is to have the most precious thing in your life
Right in your hands,
Knowing one day you will have to let them go
After years of pain and joy.

You might never get to see them grow
And become a better person than you ever hoped,
But they are what they are thanks to you.
Maybe one day you will realize this, too.

Chapter Text

The smoke from the barricade entered inside the Musain, thick and choking, like the prelude to an end Enjolras knew too well.

He stood at the back of the café, his chin high, his eyes meeting the guards’. There was no fear left in him, if there was ever any, as his friends so often doubted. In his soul there was only an unnatural calm, one that does not come from rest, but from the knowledge that fighting will be futile.

The barricade had fallen, and so had his friends, his people, all who ever believed in a tomorrow that would not dawn for them.

There was nothing left to do for Enjolras but to take the bullet and meet the same fate.

The rifles were aiming, the blindfold was refused, the general was to give the order.

Then, as the shot of a gun never fired, as the last breath of a martyr never sung, echoes of footsteps were heard. They faltered for a moment, as if their owner were not sure of having the right to go this far.

Enjolras did not turn at first, his gaze still upon the guards, thinking this must have been a trick of his brain—one last cruelty, to think there was someone who would stay by his side at the end. But then there came a voice, hoarse and bitter, breaking the quite that had settled at the lack of a requiem.

“¡Vive la révolution! I’m one of them.”

That made Enjolras react.

He turned slowly, as if afraid the movement would shatter his composure, and there he was: Grantaire, the cynic, the drunk, the one with hollow eyes. Except those eyes were alive now, looking at the leader like a devout might look to their god. There was a sweetness there, a true, unhesitant devotion, that Enjolras could not look away from.

Grantaire walked to his side, facing the guards just like him moment prior. There were mere inches between them now, but to Enjolras they felt like too many and not enough.

“End us in one shot,” he said with the conviction only a man who knew he would die would have in his last wish, as if it were impossible to refuse, as if the pain of it not being granted were a thought far too painful to consider.

Then again, as if hearing Enjolras’ own personal wish, he turned his eyes to him. They still help that same sweetness, but now there was a question in them, one Enjolras could make out before Grantaire spoke.
“Do you permit it?”

And what a question that was. To ask a god for permission to die by his side. To ask a leader for permission to believe. To ask a man for permission to love him.

Enjolras wanted to call him a fool, to order him to run and get away from this mess, to not die for a battle that was not his, so live and remember them, to let him have the hope that not all that he loved had died.

But for some reason, one he would never understand, for he would never live long enough, his lips stayed sealed, almost as if he had always known the answer.
But those same lips formed a smile, small as it was, while he looked at Grantaire’s eyes. As a last act—maybe of rebellion, maybe of love, maybe of both—,he took his hand.

He did not hear the shots when they were fired, but he did hear the hitched breath of the man by his side, as if he, too, had believed his hope to be hopeless.

Chapter Text

Red, the blood of angry men
Waiting for their moment to fight
And gain the freedom they were born to have.
Unafraid and relentless,
Their hope will live on
Even if they do not.

Black, the dark of ages past,
Still looming, still close,
But remembered still
So they cannot be repeated.

Red, a world about to dawn
Into a future when no one will fear or lament,
For the people will be kind and fair.
There will be no more illness or hunger,
For we will protect each other like brothers.

Black, the night that ends at last
After so many years of darkness unmatched.
We will set alight the world
And create our own dawn.

Chapter Text

The students had arrived days after the barricade had fallen, when the dust had settled and the fear of being taken had, although not disappeared, gotten silent enough. There was not a glorious remembrance, there would never be, but in the corners of the street, in the shadowed fissures no one would look at, flowers lay.

There were no roses, sunflowers or carnations, but flowers from the streets: nameless weeds people stepped on, but which remained even so, no matter the winter or drought.

They were invisible but beautiful, uncared for but fierce, just like the boys who had dreamed, shouted and fought for a future they hoped to see.

They would not be remembered by the ones on top, as important and mighty as they were, but they would stay in the hearts of the people below, the people who saw them, the people who heard them.

They would be called weeds, but the people would remember them as flowers.