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Post by FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY on Nov 10, 2013 14:08:17 GMT -5
The day had been like no other and the darkness was drawing in, it was strangely chilly and Joly couldn’t help but feel like it was an omen. Deaths icy fingers were close to grasping them all. Shivering he found a quiet spot away from the others, perching on the edge of a plank of wood he placed his gun down gently, glad to be free of the metal that was chilling his hands. They’d been told to rest and each been assigned watch duty through the night. The general consensus between the men was that the guards wouldn’t attack until first light. They had a few hours…a few hours and then their fates would be decided.
His hands shook slightly as he breathed onto the palms of his hands in an attempt to drive the chill from his body. Joly had come to terms with their predicament and a strange sense of calmness had overcome him. It was unlike him to feel so numb and he found himself analysing his every thought. Was he losing grip upon reality? Did he feel feverish? Joly couldn’t help but slyly pull his shirt sleeve up, checking for anything that could explain how alienated he felt. He didn’t recognise himself in his own skin and it was frightening.
His head spun and Joly leant forward rest his elbows on his knees he held his head in his hands. Who was he? He couldn’t connect himself to the person he knew himself to be. Musichetta! She jumped in front of his eyes like a flame. She would always know what to say to calm his nerves. He wished she were here, but was glad she was safe. Away from the stench of death. Joly sneezed loudly, that was it…he’d probably picked up some infection. Joly rooted in his pockets for a handkerchief, he was certain he had one. He could not bear the thought of having to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Things hadn’t got that bad yet.
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FABIEN BAHOREL
Friends of the ABC
I wan to start a riot in these city streets, I don't want to live life on repeat!
Posts: 20
Joined: May 23, 2013 20:25:44 GMT -5
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Post by FABIEN BAHOREL on Nov 11, 2013 11:56:38 GMT -5
Bahorel could hardly recall a moment in his life when he had ever felt so… alive! It was as if every fibre of his body had been awoken and now whirred and sang in tune with the pulse and song of a whole city. His city. Paris. Finally, there was a revolution again in the mother of all free nations! And he and his friends, they had been the spark to ignite the powderkeg! Tomorrow, after this night, the decision would be made: had they been a lasting fire or just a quick upflaming? But Bahorel was far too excited now to realy fear for his life. He had been through the best day of his life, one that even outclassed the student revolt of 1822, which he had never thought possible. All over the city the people were now raising small barricades, but here was the big one, here was where it all would come down! This day and the following, they would make them all immortal. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and not the least Bahorel, these names would go down in history as the liberators of a nation! Not that he cared much for this liberation... but Lord did it sound grand! How many ladies and how much free beverage would he be getting in the future just by speaking his name!
But why did he seem to be one of the few that saw it? Why on earth had his fellow brethren split up in groups of twos and threes and were now talking in hushed tones? Didn’t they feel the touch of immortality that had descended on the heroes of Paris and the whole of France? Weren’t they excited for the dawn to break so that these dribbling, shaking cowards of National Guards would face their defeat? What were they afraid of? Of course they were few yet, but they needed to set an example of vigour, or else all the fighters they had swayed at the funeral march would desert them! Where was one of Enjolras’ rousing speeches when you needed them?! His friend was lacking with them in the last few days, was he losing his touch?
Well, Bahorel certainly had no qualms with spreading his personal point of view and cause a few more smiles and cheers to erupt from their midst! He wasn’t good at waiting anyway, so if those lapdogs of the guard feared the dark and needed the sunlight for an attack, he could work his own charm to make sure the fatal disease of cowardice and disheartenment did not spread too far. In one corner he saw the huddled figure of Joly, a perfect picture of misery as always, frantically sifting through his pockets in search of what Bahorel could only guess was one of his countless handkerchiefs. Well, aid was near! Grinning to himself, the young revolutionary drew an immaculately white piece of cloth from his breastpocket and waved it in front of his friend’s nose.
“’ere, mon coupin, can’t have ye overwork yer nostrils jus’ yet. We need yer sneeze o’ death tomorrow for those guards. Dun worry, din touch this one yet, an’ it’s fresh out o’ the wash this mornin’.”
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Post by FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY on Nov 15, 2013 12:54:26 GMT -5
Sniffing loudly Joly peered up at the voice that had interrupted his worrying. The familiar face of his friend Bahorel loomed before him. A frown crossed his face, it wasn’t a laughing matter, his friends always found his quirks funny and quite frankly Joly did not see what was so funny. Death and disease was not a laughing matter. It was ugly and painful. He’d seen it first hand and feared it above everything. It was difficult for him sitting in the barricade, surrounded by the filth and dirt. It was the perfect breeding ground for disease, but he did it anyway, because he was fighting for what he believed in.
Joly took the cloth his friend offered him, muttering his words of thanks; he blew his nose on it. ‘I don’t suppose you want it back?’ he said holding out the dirty cloth, ‘I think I’m allergic to these darn barricades, been sneezing ever since we arrived’ he said bitterly, slouching back against the wall.
Joly indicated to a spot beside him making room for his friend to join him. ‘What do you think bout this revoloution?’ Joly asked quietly, ‘think we stand a chance?’ he muttered, disguising the fear in his voice. Joly adored Enjolras and the ABC, but there were times when he secretly felt the revolution was a fool’s mission. Could their little rebellion really strike the king with any kind of force? Would he ever see his Chetta again? Or was the muddy ground to be his final resting place.
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FABIEN BAHOREL
Friends of the ABC
I wan to start a riot in these city streets, I don't want to live life on repeat!
Posts: 20
Joined: May 23, 2013 20:25:44 GMT -5
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Post by FABIEN BAHOREL on Nov 15, 2013 16:08:09 GMT -5
It was all Bahorel could do not to break out in hearty laughter as he heard of his friend’s newest antic. Seriously, that one was such a classic ‘Joly’ he vowed to remember it for the rest of his life and pass it along to whoever would hear the story of their revolution in the years to come. “Allergic to our barricades?!” he echoed, suppressed amusement heavy in his voice, as he reached out to gave Joly’s arm a friendly slap. “Dieu, dun let our dear Enjolras hear any of that, he might give you a serious sermon. What do ye think yer allergic to? Might be the coffins on the front, they give me the creeps too. Whoever put them there…”
He was not exactly to be called superstitious, but even he had swallowed a little as by turning into the streets and climbing over the half-constructed barricade he had seen the small number of coffins used as balance to uphold the front part. Then he realized though that maybe just this once he should have kept his thoughts to himself. There would be nothing good coming out of making Joly even more pessimistic than he already was! He needed to get his usual act together and quickly, or else people might start to think he was catching on the dreadful somber-disease!
Therefore he gave a little ‘ha!’ sound full of confidence and cheek as he lowered himself next to the malade imaginaire. “You ask ME what I think about the revolution? Joly, my friend, I dreamt of this day and I am so glad it’s finally here – even though I feel like I’m pretty much the only one right now”, he finished with a little snortlaugh. “We only will stand a chance, if we BELIEVE that we stand a chance. Them soldier’s gonna come, but their impressible creatures. If we stand firm, if we laugh in their faces, they’re gonna run tail between legs!”
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Post by FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY on Nov 17, 2013 12:35:53 GMT -5
Joly shot Bahorel a look of contempt, he wasn’t trying to be funny and yet his friends always seemed to find his words amusing. He guessed any kind of laughter that echoed around the barricades was good, there wasn’t much left to laugh at, so Joly forgave his friend. Joly couldn’t have timed his second sneeze at a better moment, for when Bahorel mentioned the coffins, Joly let out a sneeze that could have blown half of France away. ‘Achoo!’ Joly reached to wipe his nose again, his eyes watering from the sheer force of the sneeze. ‘I think Enjolras is past lecturing me and I think the evidence points at me being correct about my allergy’s’ he muttered.
‘I have a feeling they were some kind of joke on Grantaires part, I think it’s meant to be ironic…or something…I dunno I never did understand him…’ Joly shrugged, trying not to think about the gothic boxes that were laid at the front of their makeshift fortress and what their presence symbolised.
Joly nodded grimly at Bahorels words of confidence, how he wanted to believe them, how he wished he was filled with the confidence of the other men. He couldn’t control the overwhelming feeling of panic that kept rising up inside of him. It was the waiting that he couldn’t cope with. He always hated to wait and it made him ever so anxious. The familiar cramps in his stomach had begun shortly after the last gunshot had been fired and they had continued into the evening. Ever since he was a little boy he’d been plagued with the pains, always when he was at his most anxious and they would come and go like the tide.
‘Aye,’ Joly agreed, ‘We will show them…we may be deprived…but we have the will of the people behind us. When they come we shall show them our strength. They should fear us.’ Joly spoke with as much conviction as he could muster. Whatever would be…would be.
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