THE BLOOD OF ANGRY MEN [AMIS!]

[Deleted]

[OOC: Please note - for now, this meeting is ONLY open to the Amis! That means Enjolras, Combferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Marius. Our posting order will just be established by the order of the posts in this first round. Please reply within two days, or you might be skipped!]

Courfeyrac had never been late for a meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC, and tonight was no exception, in spite of how eventful the past hour or two had been. Any joys of the day were quite tempered by the sobriety that burdened him when he remembered that violence had been done against innocent people. Part of him blamed the Patron-Minette; part of him blamed the National Guard. Perhaps it didn't matter, but he knew that the people lusted for blood. He wished to God that it would not be given to them, but he did not know how to avoid it.

Could there be a bloodless coup if enough people were present and demanding a republic? Courfeyrac would have thought that the masses might intimidate the Guard at least a little, and certainly a lot of people had showed up to the street parade; however, they were not armed. Perhaps that was why they had not seemed threatening. That, of course, could be altered. They had guns enough. The problem was procuring enough gun powder. He wished that no shots would actually be fired, and just having people making their voices heard by holding guns and showing up in force would be enough. But could such things be?

He trusted that Enjolras knew what he was doing, as he always trusted in Enjolras. Enjolras was their chief. Combferre, too, no doubt would have some good ideas – their guide. Granted, Combferre had been a bit frazzled lately. To tell the truth, they had all been rather frazzled. However, it was at times like this, when they were together, that everything became clear. It was true that men sharpened each other as well as iron, never more so than when discussing how to make lofty ideals come true upon the Earth. They would make the Earth free, or die trying.

That was how Courfeyrac felt about it, anyway. As for the others... they would just have to see. No one wanted violence. But if it came, they had to be prepared.

Courfeyrac glanced around at the somber students who had gathered into the cafe, and placed an affirming hand on Enjolras' shoulder, giving him a nod. “Ev'ryone's 'ere who's goin' to be,” he murmured, giving the shoulder a squeeze before taking his seat.

[Deleted]

How could the world have changed so quickly in so little time? Today had begun just as it usually did—Combeferre had arose early to tea, breakfast, and some light reading, and he had spent the rest of the day in intense study. That night, he had attended the May Day Parade, and what had begun as a peaceful protest had escalated into a riot. Granted Les Amis were not to blame for it. The Patron-Minette had been the ones to initiate a conflict, but the National Guard had been the ones to finish it. An innocent woman had been struck down in the course of action, and that was what changed everything.

Now that blood was shed, there was no going back to the way things were. Something needed to happen, or all out chaos would fill the streets. The people were angry, his friends were no doubt angry, and so was Combeferre. He had been the one to yell an accusation of murder to the National Guardsmen. But that by no means meant that he wanted an armed conflict. He did not want to see more innocents killed, and he refused to watch his friends die. However this had seriously impeded any hopes he had of arguing against such a conflict, because the woman deserved to be avenged somehow—things needed to change. The government needed to be held responsible, and the only way it looked like that was going to happen was through violence.

They had tried his way, and his way had ended in blood. Peaceful demonstrations were not yielding any acceptable results, so something new naturally would have to be tried—he knew that was what his colleagues would suggest at the meeting, and he had no counterpoint, no rebuttal, for such an argument, because deep down Combeferre knew that they were right. So he had run through the streets behind Eponine, Marius, and Feuilly, fleeing the National Guard and thinking about what they were obligated to do next. Truth be told, Combeferre did not have a plan. There seemed to be no way to stop the barricades from arising. No moral argument against killing could even stand against the anger he felt—the National Guard had killed, and now they had to avenge the woman’s death and prevent more deaths. They could not allow this to go on, they could not allow the people to live in fear.

For the sake of the better world they were pursuing, Combeferre would be willing to fight, but if they were to fight, they needed to do so in such a way that would ensure the least amount of casualties as possible. And they needed a good plan, because right now they were terribly outgunned and outnumbered. The people had been angry tonight to be sure, but could they really rally all of Paris behind them in a war against the state? The people did not want war, and neither did he. If they wanted them to join their cause, they would need to do everything in their power to convince them that laying down their lives for the good of France was worth it.

It was with this mindset that Combeferre entered the Musain, taking his usual place in his chair next to Enjolras and Courfeyrac. All was quiet in the moments in which they waited for their leader to speak—Combeferre guessed that the mind of each man was on the events of that night. What would become of all of them in the days to come?

[Deleted]

[OOC: I am really sorry for the length of this. I just. I love you all. I am really sorry! Enjolras is just....intense.]

[/i] such earthly concerns and forces.

Of course, the thing about that is that, because he admits no weaknesses to himself. He cannot even think of showing them to other people. Enjolras has rejected his human side, emotions and tedious needs like eating and sleeping are distractions. He indulges only in the bare minimum of them. What importance could his needs rank on the scale when everyday he looks out his window and sees the suffering. The sick children, the women in their torn dresses and rags, the citizens who walk around in bare tattered feet because they cannot even afford shoes to make life easier. How can he worry about his own selfish needs? The human requirements that make him weak.

If he is tired, than he is no more weary than Lady Liberty is, waiting for her time to rule over this land again. If he is hungry, than he is no more hungry than the people of this country, who starve, who suffer and who go without so that a few on the top of the heap may live in utter comfort and luxury. How could his needs, the needs of one person, be more important than attending to business that helps and improves the station of them all.

Tonight, though, tonight they seem heavy on his shoulders. He wonders how he never noticed or realized. Maybe it is because before this moment, they had adhered to peaceful methods. Trying to rouse the people to unite. Enjolras, despite what some might think, had no love of violence. He did not like it, it was a bloody business, and everybody knew it.

Aurélien's first instincts are not for violence, but it is a tool, like one of many they have available to them. Combeferre does not like to consider it, so Enjolras must be the one to think on it. He doesn't want people to die, he doesn't even want to kill anybody in the National Guard. They are sons of France, just as he is, just as his friends are. He cannot fault them their love of their country. He can only dislike that they chose to stand with it, to support it's injustice instead of trying to improve it. Though in other ways, he understands it must be easier, to delude yourself into thinking that even unjust laws must be enforced. It is harder to stand in opposition to injustice, because those on the right side of History, of progress are often outnumbered.

Tonight, he walks the streets after he is well away from the Parade in something of a fog. Tonight was supposed to be about brotherhood of the people of France, it was supposed to be about solidifying their bond to each other. To recruiting more men who wanted to form a true nation, a nation based on the freedom to forge his own fortune. Instead, it had turned to chaos and panic.

The group had been fractured apart and all order had been lost, and because the men of France could not embrace each other. The monoarchy again, had been allowed to bring down it's unjust fist in punishment, and in that fist, it had crushed out the flame of life. A woman, an innocent women out to celebrate with her daughter of all people.

It mattered not to him that he had not been the one to fire a rifle, her blood was partially on his hands. Enjolras knows, or he believes, that you must fight what you know to be wrong, you cannot allow evil to flourish, if you do, it is just as much your fault.

By the time he arrives at the Musain, his mood is somber. He had hoped tonight would be a cause for celebration. Some things have been accomplished, but it is not enough. Enjolras worries if they will be able to unite the people. Perhaps they are not ready? He doesn't know how they could not be.

Every day, there is a new pain in his heart, some new suffering he must look in the face. He doesn't want to be idle any longer. Not when people are dying.

He is silent as they gather one by one, allowing them to talk to each other in low voice. There are many thoughts in his head, and he is a man who does not speak without consideration. He is not a man of wasted words.

Enjolras nods though at the touch of Courfeyrac's hand, the familiar lilt of his voice. He cannot put off speaking any longer. He straightens his shoulders and lifts his head. His eyes are somehow gentle and fiery as he looks upon his friends, his brothers.

"My dear friends, my brothers." He starts, and his voice is powerful even if inside he feels weighted down with grief. He did not know the woman, but he mourns her. Nobody should have to die innocent. Nobody should have to fight for rights that are natural and due to the citizens. Unfortunately, they live in an imperfect world. He only hopes that their actions may do something to improve it.

"I had hoped this night would give us cause for revelry and celebration. Instead, I find myself among you, and my heart is heavy with grief. And I feel my hands are spattered with blood that had no business being spilled." He takes a breath and looks at each of them in turn, and they all add to him, they add to his faith. He is certain that nobody has ever had such noble friends as he has.

"Instead of celebration, I am here and I grieve. I grieve for that innocent woman that we could not save. I grieve for the scoundrels who would rather fight each other over scraps than fight the monarchy for the whole bounty they should have available to them. I grieve for the people who are too afraid to fight for themselves and their families. Mostly though, I grieve for France. I grieve for Liberty." He says, sparing a moment to wet his lips.

"And yet, in this grief, I find myself a sword brandished in fire." He says, because this is what he was meant for. He was meant to rally men, he was meant to help lead them toward what is right and good. "I feel the path forward has only grown more illuminated. This blood saddens me, but it hardens me, it gives me resolve. Brothers, you all know that we argue for a noble and righteous cause. And I hope, and urge you, to be inspired by this night. You all know violence is not my first inclination. But the monarchy must be shown that these injustices will not be tolerated. No more, will the men of France sit meekly while people die." He pauses, needing to take a breath, the wave of his words have swelled. Sometimes he feels as though he is being spoken through, as though the spirit of revolution has taken hold of him, body and soul.

He glances at Combeferre specifically at his side, he knows his friend's distaste for blood. Enjolras admires his inherently logical and peaceful nature, he hopes that it had become clear to him that more forceful measures are necessary. "When the government has willfully violated the sacred rights of it's people, Revolution becomes not just a necessity, but a duty. This is a duty I will proudly bear. But I cannot speak for every man here." He says and nods to each of them in turn. He is leader, but a good leader heeds the word of the men closest to him and he will do the same. [/ul]

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly felt exhausted, drained. He glanced around at the faces around the table, all familiar, all friends—and, he imagined, likely all filled with a similar, dreary, grey-brown mix of anxiety, grief, fatigue... shot through with the red of blood, revolution, the sharp emotions that had cut through the haze as they walked back to the cafe from the scene of what could only be considered a crime.

But of course, it wouldn't be considered a crime—at least not by the people who mattered. For people like Feuilly and his friends it mattered, for people like the dead woman and those who must have cared about her it mattered even more. For the average Parisian, the average Frenchman, it mattered more than they perhaps quite realized yet. There was no telling just how much of a blaze it could spark.

He sat, silent, his eyes fixed calmly on Enjolras as he began his speech. His words were always inspired, but the content had the potential to be terrifying. It was necessary, of course; Feuilly could think of no alternative to violence—had always known that eventually it would turn to violence. Fists were the last refuge of a powerless man, and in his life it had been almost purely men like these--students, intellectuals, the sons of wealthy parents--who had fought with words. Street fighting, then, was the refuge of a powerless nation—the fists of a people oppressed.

Feuilly himself had never been much for fist-fighting, lacked both talent and inclination. The risk of injuring his hands and harming his ability to work was too great. Neither did he really relish the idea of turning all of this into a battle in the streets, but he knew it was necessary. As long as there was a king on the throne, blind and deaf to the concerns of the people here below, violence would be one of the few options left to solve their problems.

He wished they had had time to gather more support. That had been their purpose at the parade, after all—before it had gotten bloody. He wanted a moment to rest, but suddenly a perfectly mundane world that had consisted of a well-worn path from home to work, from work to this cafe, then home again had been shaken. He wouldn't have minded the variety except that it reeked of blood.

Blood that was going to have to flow even more thickly by the time this was over. When Enjolras' nod had finally reached him, he pulled his face into a grave smile and nodded slightly himself. Revolution. It was the one thing that his hopes and the hopes of all the peoples of the world were bound to. He would throw himself into it, willingly, and give all he could for its success.

[Deleted]

(OOC: Sorry for the wait! I wanted to give Erin some time to reply with Marius, but it's best to keep things moving!)

Courfeyrac nodded a solemn greeting to Combferre and Feuilly, as he had done for the other Amis in attendance. Marius was not among them, but perhaps that was just as well. If Marius was not willing to devote himself completely to this cause, if he had been distracted by Mademoiselle Cosette, then it was not right for him to be here. He could not offer them his heart, even his life, if it did not completely belong to them. Tonight was not the night for raucous laughter and drinking and jades; there had been enough of that at the Parade, but that had been before... well, before. Now, they were grave – because another grave would have to be dug for the victim of tonight's senseless violence. How many had died from the crime of attrition, from their poverty, without any drama or fanfare, but had quietly starved? Too many!

How could it be that no matter how many times Enjolras spoke, he still felt chills each time? He was spellbound, but he swallowed, flinching slightly at the imagery of being spattered with blood. He met Enjolras' gaze, mesmerized. As Enjolras moved on, he lowered his head, looking at his lap in discouragement for a moment. It did not take long, however, for him to become heartened again. There was always a yet with Enjolras; their chief always had hope left. He straightened. “No more,” he repeated under his breath, nodding fervently in agreement with Enjolras' promise – they would sit idly by no more.

As Enjolras' glance fixed on Combferre, Courfeyrac placed a hand on his friend's knee reassuringly. Maybe it was meant as a subconscious reminder of why they were here, he did not know. But he did know that in spite of whatever might be distracting Combferre, including his disgust with violence, Combferre was devoted to helping the people. And Enjolras was right – this was what they had to do. Revolt. Revolution, a break in the revolution of the revolving a circle of history, that slow and idle wheel! Enjolras' eyes on his face once more, he stood. “Then Ah speak for myself,” he declared, trembling with emotion as he resolutely he held his friend's gaze. “An' so will the people. We will see them rise!”

[Deleted]

He almost could not believe what he was hearing. Revolution, revolt. They were words often repeated in the meetings but they were far off, lofty, abstract ideas. Even when they stockpiled weapons and ammunition, he had never fully accepted that they actually do this. He had never believed the situation would ever get this serious, this dire, this drastic—yet it had. The moment the National Guardsman fatally shot that innocent gypsy woman was the moment all of their lives changed forever—and not for the better.

He knew Enjolras was right. The French government had long ago broken the social contract—and because of that they were morally obligated to build a new government in it. It was their God-given right, he knew—he loved Locke, and he knew his theory. Did he ever expect to put it into practice? At the first suggestion of armed revolution long ago, Combeferre had considered and then threatened to leave the society. But of course his friendship tied him to Les Amis. Not only that, but deep down, he knew something needed to be done. No one else was doing enough.

Would he fight? Should he fight? Could he really strike and kill another human being for the sake of democracy? Combeferre was not sure. He was sure that he did not want to hurt anyone, regardless of how angry he felt—they were all angry. But he could not watch his friends die for the cause that he so ardently believed in. His place was with them. He felt Enjolras’s eyes on him, perhaps challenging him, asking him if he was with them. He continued staring at the table silently. He was not ready to give his answer.

Then he felt Courfeyrac lay a hand on his knee and swear his allegiance to the cause. He looked up at him, and then at Enjolras before taking a deep breath and rising to his feet. “My friends, my fellow students, workers—this is a severe matter indeed. We are all grieved for the loss of an innocent woman’s life.” I could have saved her. If I had run faster, if I had gotten there…I could have stopped this. “Such bloodshed was senseless, uncalled for, and cruel—and more than anything I want those responsible to answer for their actions. However under the current regime that just is not possible. I know this, and so do you, my brothers.” His eyes studied each face briefly before lingering on Enjolras’s. “I am with you to the end—I pledge myself to France and to a new world, but I beg of you to think very carefully before taking military action. You speak of the people rising up to join us, but what if they are not as dedicated as we are? What if we have not convinced them? We need to throw the yoke of our oppressors off our necks, but we can not do this without the support of the people of Paris!” His voice raised considerably, not out of anger, but out of ardor. He wanted each and every person to be aware of what would happen if they acted rashly, if their plan failed.

“We need to get their attention, to agitate them against the government, and to educate them about the particular evils of the regime. Public opinion must be on our side for us to even have the hope to succeed—now I know,” He paused to raise a hand. “I know that tonight’s events may seem like enough to anger the people into rebellion, but have you ever considered that they might still be living in fear? That they are not yet ready to lay down their lives for all of France when their day-to-day troubles are the first things that occupy their thinking? I want to stop the bloodshed—if the blood is on anyone’s hands, Enjolras, it’s mine because I couldn’t get to her.” He gave his friend a quick gaze before continuing, “My belief is that we need to hold another demonstration, but hear me out. The next time we take to the streets, we will be armed—and if the National Guard decides to rear its ugly head again, we will be ready for them. But we cannot be seen as the aggressors, my friends, or else the people will be too far removed from our cause and will blatantly refuse to join us.”

[Deleted]

[/b]

Aurélien knows, he believes in the goodness of people, they are capable of awful things but everyday his friends prove to him they are capable of boundless good as well. All they have to do is make them see that, to see that now is the time to be brave and selfless, not only for themselves but for their families and all the future families of France.

Combeferre stands and starts to speak, he encourages them, says he is always with them and with their revolution and with the good of the people. Enjolras knows, has always known that he could count on him. He sighs at the the cautions though, it is easier to be him, he thinks. Enjolras is free to think in broad ideals, about righteousness and how things ought to be.

Combeferre is the one to consider the other aspects that might get lost. Enjolras knows the people are tired, but he also knows they are afraid. He knows they are capable, they are a powder keg of discontent, and Frenchman, they are happy to fight for a good cause. They will fight and die for love and love of their country.

"I know, Combeferre. You know I don't wish to have the streets run with senseless blood. There shall be no more dying in vain, only death in the course of what is right. But I agree with your words, we cannot hope to prevail without the support of the people. They will not want to trade the despotism of one government for another. I feel the people are at a critical point. It's as though I can feel their unhappiness, as though it was a force inside me. All we must do, is show them what can be accomplished if we all stand for freedom."

"All they need, is a spark. This is something that we can give, all we must do, is ensure that they are as prepared as we believe them to be." Enjolras doesn't want to throw his life away, he doesn't want anybodies life to be ended for no cause. All fights have casualties, but there is a difference between loses on a battle and an all out blood bath. He knows enough of the world to know it's a better world with his friends in it.

His heart aches slightly to see that pain guilt that weighs on his friend's heart. "You cannot take the blame for any of this. We have done much, we continue to do all we can. We could not save that woman, but we can ensure that he daughter may live to see a better world." He says to him, more quietly and draws him into a brief embrace. "Have faith. In our cause, and in me." He urges for Combeferre only, spoken into his ear. [/ul]

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

“The People will come,” Feuilly said softly. His voice was perhaps easily subsumed under the charisma and power of Enjolras', but he knew by now that he was not worth somehow less because of what he was. “The workers will join us, only often they are too afraid—as Combeferre says.” Things were reaching the point where fear would no longer have much to do with it, but the average workingman of Paris had more to lose than a student with a wealthy family to support him. This was doubly so for those with families under their care.

There were things Feuilly agreed with Combeferre on, and in an ideal world he would very much have preferred Combeferre's vision to violence. But this time Enjolras was right, they had to rise up. And people would be hurt, people would die... but in the end, it was for justice. For freedom, for the people, not only in France but in all the corners of the world. Still, he liked Combeferre's version as well—and education was the most necessary thing in getting France to forget her fears and stand beside them.

“All they need is to believe. Believe the world can change, believe that life doesn't have to be what it is now. Enough of them will be willing.”

Feuilly knew that support among his own class was not universal, but it did come mostly to fear. To fear, to fatigue, to the sense that the world never would and never could change. That life would drag on, one year the same as the next, until some accident or illness tore you from it. That was the world Feuilly had grown up in, worked in, lived in—but he rejected its fatalism. If the revolts in Poland could last a year before they failed, it meant people were willing to fight. The same would be true in Paris, and there was the chance they would succeed. Success was inevitable, he believed that firmly—but what he could not bring himself to be so sure about was whether it would be their revolt that would succeed.

As Enjolras bent down to whisper into Combeferre's ear, however, Feuilly knew that this was neither the time nor the place to acknowledge that they might not succeed immediately. He would weep for those who fell, whose blood would run out onto the dirty streets... but the death of the woman at the parade had proven more than anything else that blood would spill no matter what. Better that some die now, in the name of justice and freedom, to usher in a new world rather than let them be snuffed out one by one with no change in sight.

And if one of the lives claimed was his, he would not complain. He knew what he risked.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]2246 WORDS FOR mes amis Flower seller's daughter worked out with Emmy and sorry for the length.. I was trying to sort out an IC reason for why Jean might not have made it to the parade and might be late to this thread. BLOOD! [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]At the parade: "Come here.. I won't hurt you..." Jean breathed to the little girl, curled in a ball beneath a vendor's cart. He could see her heart pounding at the pulse point in her neck, her breath fluttering like he imagined a hummingbird's might. She was little larger than one - in the poetic sense of course. She was a tiny child - perhaps in appearance five or six, though her skinniness suggested it was possible she was older and simply malnourished. Jean thought, from her facial features - even in the darkened shadows - that this was more likely. "Please let me help you.. I'm a friend." He said, his voice almost hypnotic in soothing qualities as he carefully dropped to his knees on the cobblestones before the vendor's cart where the girl had crawled beneath. He could tell from the looks of her.. and from her fear sticken face that she didn't seem to understand his words. Her slightly darker hair and skin suggested the reason for this - as did her mode of dress. Everyone else had been too horrified by the events which had just unfolded to notice. Jean, however, always with a keen eye, had noticed. The woman who had died must be a gypsy. No one else was thinking about the child.. but Jean remembered her sweet, excited face earlier in the evening. She had been like a baby foal, excited and exhilerated to be up on her own two feet for the first time, but yet not straying too far from Mama. He would remember that face anywhere.. and now there was none of the joy and innocent curiosity he had seen in it before. Now, there was only fear, panic, and hurt. Being that he had three sisters himself, Jean understood how little girls' minds worked - at least he thought he did.. And this little girl had every right to be scared and suspicious of those around her who might do her harm.. and now she had lost her mother who protected her. She was crying, but the tears were silent. He could see their tracks on her cheeks, though. Carefully, watching his head, he crawled part-way beneath the cart - enough he could see her, but not enough to be invading her space as she cringed back to the farthest corner of the cart by the other wheel. "Shh shhh it's okay." Jean murmured, reaching into his pocket where he found a bit of baguette still left over from earlier in the evening when he'd bought something to eat. He held out the piece of bread to her, hoping the child would see it as an offer of friendship. He placed it on the ground between the two of them. It was a moment before her hand snaked out from her raggedy cloak and grabbed it, shoving it into her mouth whole and chewing as quickly as possible - as if she expected this strange man to take it away from her. "I'm Jean.. but you can call me Jehan. I'm a friend." He said again, his voice still soothing. "Do you want to go home? I'll take you home... " he offered, relieved as the little girl finally crawled toward him, though less relieved when coming out from under the vendor's cart caused him not only to bash his head on the underside of it - but revealed that the Parade had turned to chaos, and there was people in every direction he turned. At least the chaos would mean that no one would see him in all of the mess. No one would know this had even occurred. Carefully, he lifted the girl into his arms. In all the chaos, she had obviously been hurt - probably knocked down by all the other larger bodies pressing against her. Her head and knee were both bleeding quite a lot, her other knee and her hands were badly scraped. He found himself wishing that Combeferre or Joly were here to take a look at the child. They were not, however, and there would be no hope of finding them in this mass. No.. he would do well to get away from all of the people. He was touched when the girl buried her head in his chest, even if it did smear blood all over him. He carried her as carefully as possible away from the craziness of the streets and the sounds of the riot faded behind him. In a quiet alley, he placed the girl on top of a pile of wood to serve as a table. He wet his handkerchief with water from a rain barrel and carefully dabbed at her head and her knee until he had cleaned them and made sure they were free of debris as best he could in the darkness. When she hissed at his dabbing, he sang something softly to her that he remember his mother singing to his sisters. "Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous? Dormez-voud? Sonnez les matines!....." He wasn't sure if it was the words or the sound of his voice, but her cries finally subsided as he ripped his vest in order to bandage her knee and to tie another strip around her dark curls. Once he thought he had at least this little accomplished, he picked her up again and kept walking, singing the song softly to her. He also removed his jacket to wrap her in both to protect her from the night air and to keep anyone from noticing them. He carried his burden still humming the tune of the song to her.. all the way to the last place he knew the Gypsies to be... ______________ Jean Prouvaire was wet, cold, bone tired, and covered - he suspected - with blood that didn't belong to him. It flowed down his formerly nice white shirt making rivers of red on white like blood in winter's snow. Even in his present state, he thought with a slight smirk, he couldn't entirely do away with his poetic muse whispering things to him in his head. He sighed as he trudged onward. His feet were tired and burning in the shoes he now wore which did not fit his feet and were rubbing blisters on the backs of his ankles - though that was certainly not his greatest concern. He'd had blisters before and he would have again. He sighed, though, about being wet and out in the cold and thought about what his mother would say. She would scold for sure. However, there was little he could do. It had certainly been warm enough earlier in the day - May Day had been nice this year, warm and sunny. However, as a matter of course, the evening had turned rather chilly once the sun had sunk beyond the horizon's line and the last of the orange had faded out of the sky leaving it streaked purple and navy blue above him. Even the sky, though it was cold, was majestic. He almost wished there would be Northern Lights like he'd seem on some of his travels .. but he suspected there wouldn't be. It didn't happen that often, after all. But he could imagine it in his mind. Oh wouldn't -that- just give him something wonderful and beautiful to write about? He kept his mind on it as he trudged through darkened, abandoned streets. It was something to think about.. something to keep his bone-weary body moving. He needed to get to the Musain. He knew, somehow, he just knew, that his friends would be there. He'd been separated from the rest of them in the chaos which has surrounded that poor woman's death... but something like a voice inside of him let him know that his friends would be at their usual meeting place tonight even though it likely would not have happened without the events which had led to the rioutous end to the parade. But that end had changed things. Now, they would want to talk. He shuddered slightly thinking. God they would want to talk about things that would make his blood run colder than ice. However, suddenly, his mind changed. Maybe they wouldn't go to the Musain.. It seemed too obvious a place. Though it was their usual spot.. that was what made it dangerous after a night like this. Maybe they would be at the Corinth instead. He sighed trying to make up his mind and then, having made it, trudged off in the direction of the Corinth. If he knew anything about Enolras and Combe - it was that they'd want to keep everyone safe.. they wouldn't go to the obvious place tonight - especially not if they were going to be making the kind of plans Jean feared they would want to. Well.. not Combe.. Combe was second to none for his dislike of violence and bloodshed. Jean supposed that was only right for a doctor. First, do no harm - after all. Jean knew that Combe wasn't the only one in the group known for his extreme distaste of violence.. the second being Jean himself. He was angry that the death of a poet - André Chenier - had been caused by the first revolution. He had been clear that he wanted no more part in blood shed - he wanted peaceful change. He also knew that some others in the group believed this to be impossible. Perhaps it was; perhaps, Jean thought to himself, perhaps it is just the wishful thinking of a soft-hearted poet who wishes to see no harm come to anyone. Part of him dreaded seeing his friends tonight. A tiny part of him feared that Combeferre and himself would be rejected even. No. We are amis. We would not do that to each other. We will stand strong and firm and brave -together- even if we all don't agree one hundred percent of the time. We will. Jean steadied his resolve not to believe or think bad things. They were friends and would always be even if they didn't always agree on everything - and he knew tonight there was a very real possibility they might not. That frightened him. Silently he crossed himself as he arrived at the door of the Corinth and pushed it open with hesitance. At first he thought they weren't there, but finally his eyes adjusted to the dim light that was there and he saw them, huddled together in a small circle. They looked a mixture of proud and determined and scared and small in the wake of something greater than all of them. The power and awesomeness of the moment - having just caught the tail-end of Enjolras' speech - washed over him. He, like the rest of them, had a chance to really stand up for what he believed in and to truly make a difference in the world. Wasn't that more important than his desire not to harm anyone? Maybe... If he could brave his own distaste of revolution and partake in the death of a few.. a few hopefully willing to sacrifice themselves for the cause (he was not, himself, afraid to do so - just adamantly opposed to the taking of others' lives) perhaps they could make something of Paris again - of all of France really.. but it was that nagging of not knowing.. not knowing whether or not too many innocent lives would be taken - those of people who had never wanted to be involved - like André Chenier. He sighed. Nevertheless, he was moved to the extreme by his leader's words.. and by the hug exchanged between he and Combeferre. Had that meant that Combe had accepted? Jean wished he could take him aside for a moment and talk to him - ask him what had been said. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions - but the end of Enjolras' speech told him otherwise. He had been right in his assumption of what they would discuss. He knew his friends well, after all. Slowly, he advanced toward them and took his seat, looking a little hang dog and a little the worse for the wear. Truthfully, even he was unaware how cold, tired, wet, and bloody he looked for he, of course, had not had a mirror. And, for the moment, all thoughts of being a dandy were well out the window and his mind was still playing over the events which had taken place at the parade - from the girl he had saved by taking her home to the death of the woman.. and now to sitting here with his friends contemplating horrible revolutionary thoughts which he could barely wrap his mind around. And yet a part of him knew that now there was no going back.. there was no other answer. "I agree." He said at last. "mes amis.. you know my distaste for violence, for bloodshed.. I hate the idea of fighting.. of killing another person - though for my life for this cause I have little fear and little regret - other than that my family would likely miss me a great deal and my father might never forgive me... but that is of little consequence compared with the largesse of the situation.. something must be done. If it is to fight, and that is what we decide as a group.. I will pledge myself to it.. " [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0

[Deleted]

Courfeyrac's brows furrowed as Combferre rose to speak. Naturally, there was a but in the prudent student's response. “You are correct, Combferre,” Courfeyrac conceded. “But Enjolras is right too. The people are ready, an' all they need is sumone to take initiative. Ah promise you, we 'ave thought carefully about this. You know 'ow long we've been sittin' 'round 'ere waitin' for sumthin' else to 'appen, an' Ah think by now it's clear, if we don't do sumthin', no one else is goin' to.” As much as he thought that kings were not necessary to lead a people, he still thought that when everyone was equal, a leader needed to arise from the people. And they had to be those leaders. He met his friend's gaze, dark eyes serious. “We already 'ave the support of the people. Ye were there, when we were passin' out pamphlets. You saw the light in their eyes, an' the 'ope!” His brows furrowed. “They want this as much as we do.”

He had to believe this. He knew the dangers of what they were talking of. It was why, until tonight, they had not quite managed to voice it specifically. They all knew that this was to be the end of their beginnings, if the National Guard and the king who had taken control of it a generation ago did not relent. Perhaps it would be the end of their lives as well. All Courfeyrac knew was that if it was, he would rather die on his feet than live on his knees, and he expected the same would be true of the people living in the streets. He opened his mouth to say this to Combferre, shutting it again when Blaise insisted that the death of the flower-seller tonight might not be enough to motivate them, but only briefly. “Too many people 'ave died, an' they're goin' to keep dyin' at the 'ands of the National Guardsmen, Ah tell ye now. These men lust fer blood. The only way to tell 'em they're not gettin' it is if we arm ourselves.” He put up a hand, indicating that he was going to clarify. “Ah'm not askin' to be the aggressor. Jus' to stand with our guns – an' our swords; let 'em know the nobles are on the side of the people too – an' stand together. There will be enough of us, Ah know it.” He looked to Enjolras for support, then nodded in gratitude to Feuilly's comment. “All Ah want is te have a conversation with them. If they speak in bullets, then we'll answer in kind, but only then.”

He had done; he had said his piece. If anyone could motivate Combferre, it would be Enjolras, but he knew that even though they sometimes disagreed, Combferre would respect what he had to say. All of them were in agreement that they did not want any more senseless deaths; it was just that they did not all agree whether senseless deaths would come of this. They weren't asking anyone to come to the demonstration who didn't want to. But it had been made clear at the Parade that to the National Guard, there was no peaceful demonstration. Not when they came in with their guns to shoot innocents.

As Enjolras embraced Combferre, he moved away, giving Blaise another squeeze reassuringly before moving to the new arrival. Jehan looked bone-weary. He gave the man a silent greeting, placing a hand on his shoulder and handing him a full glass to revive his spirits.

There was another knock on the door, and Courfeyrac paused for a moment before going to answer it. It could be anyone. However, he moved swiftly then to the door, opening it to reveal Gavroche. Courfeyrac tousled his hair and leaned down to hear the boy before he straightened, face grave. “Listen everybody!” he exclaimed, as some of the Amis had gotten to chatting amongst themselves. “General Lamarque is dead.”

(OOC: Hope it was okay to drop that in, thought it might give us something else to talk about and let Enjolras move things along a little!)

[Deleted]

“I realize that they are unhappy—as righteously angry and disgusted with their government as we are.” Combeferre answered calmly, trying to subdue the urgency he felt. He needed to make his point clearly—without the people on their side, they would fail, he knew it. He was not a cynic, he was as much a dreamer as Enjolras was, but reason forced him to beg his friends to weigh all their options. And we don’t have many. He knew they were impatient, as was he, but he did not believe that more blood would solve their problems. Would massacres in the streets give the people freedom? Would anarchy? Another reign of terror was what he wanted to avoid at all costs.

“A sign would energize them, yes, but I don’t think that this is it, Enjolras. We need to convince them that death would be better than tyranny because that is what they’d be facing—death. They have as much at stake as we do—or more, I should say. They have families, obligations, wives, children, dreams, homes—however poor they are, they do have much to lose. Getting them to say that they are willing to risk that will be the hardest part.” His tone was even, save for a few times that the passion he felt for the subject slipped out. “And if our revolution fails, they will be hunted down as we will and guillotined for treason. If we are not completely sure that we have their complete and utter support, then that will be the outcome of our revolution.” he stated severely, his blue eyes falling across every face in the room.

They settled on Enjolras when the other man embraced him. Combeferre patted his shoulder and gazed at him, surprised, when he urged him discreetly to have faith in their cause and in him. I do, he said with nothing but his eyes. Courfeyrac then spoke up, and the medical student sighed, realizing that any further protests would do him no good. They all knew what they were getting into by defying the government—he knew what he was getting into when they first started talking about this. He had no desire or inclination to abandon his friends or their cause, but if blood was spilled, he did not want it to be spilled in vain.

“Not all of the National Guardsmen lust for blood.” he murmured quietly. “Some of them are our age, even younger—that was one man who murdered that woman, and he is the one I want tried and held accountable. Those men have families and lives just as we do—they are people, they are Frenchmen. If they oppose us, then so be it, we will do what must be done—but my friend, do not characterize them all the same way because of one man. I am bourgeois, you are bourgeois—does that make us greedy, selfish blackguards as many of the poor think us to be?” he addressed Courfeyrac philosophically. “I rest my case, here. Yes, I do think we should arm ourselves. I stand with you.” he told their leader, offering him his hand.

His attention was diverted when Gavroche rushed through the door. Combeferre looked at him in question, concerned by the serious expression on Courfeyrac’s face after the boy told him something. His eyes widened and his heart sank as his friend made his announcement, and, distrustful of his feet, the medical student sat down in his chair, stunned. Lemarque, the only man in the government who even remotely cared for the oppressed, was dead. He had known that he was ill, but he had never really thought about the implications of his death until now. The people had been robbed of their champion. And now, we must speak for them… His eyes left Courfeyrac and fell upon Enjolras as he wondered what their chief’s plan of action was.

[LA MORT]

It was over. He had seen her. She had given her name. Cosette. She had brushed her fingers against his; she had grasped his hand. Had he felt it truly? Surely, she was an angel and he had only imagined her touch, the one that had made his skin feel as though it were on fire. He had barely even managed to answer. He was not sure that she had heard him over the din of the crowd. He had still been breathless and dazed as she pulled her hand away from him suddenly – what? No! Why? And then in an instant she had been gone from his sight once more, disappearing into the masses. He had told her to go; he had told her that her wings should carry her to safety. His angel.

He was left weak in the knees. Cosette. Cosette. He might not have been able to stand were not the other attendees of the parade pressing around him and keeping him upright. As he had been pushing through them to get close to Enjolras, things suddenly went wrong. He had been stopped in his tracks, paralyzed by Cosette's unexpected approach, and he could see in helpless horror as a member of the Patron-Minette swung at Enjolras, their fearless leader. But Enjolras had evaded the blow. He exhaled heavily in relief, watching as Enjolras turned away, and attempted to follow him. He stopped again at the crack of gunfire, tensing in fear.

And then Ponine was there, and he had taken her hand. She had pulled him to safety. They had run, and run long, and run hard. She knew every corner of this city – Ponine, she knew her way around. Everything was chaos, but she was there, grounding him, even when he felt like his head would have otherwise been in the clouds after meeting with Cosette, and his feet might have been taken him out from under him by the crowd.

He had heard the order issued that the Amis would meet, but his mind was jumbled. He knew that he had to join his brothers, but he was conflicted. How could he be sure that Cosette had gotten out safely? He needed to see her again, just to know. What if she had come to the parade just to see him and it was his fault? ...he was not sure that he was worth it, but she had approached him so directly...! The memory of it made his heart leap.

They wandered the streets in companionable silence. He thought of his angel, and where he might find her, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was unaware of time, even of Eponine's companionship, for a while. He came to himself suddenly, blinking. “The meeting,” he breathed, seizing Eponine's hand. “'Ponine – find her for me. Please.” He looked at her eyes pleadingly in the darkness, pressing her hand once more before releasing it and hurrying off.

He arrived at the meeting place breathless and flushed, taking a moment to compose himself before he entered. When he came into the room, he saw Gavroche stood before him, and the room had fallen silent. He made no apology for being late, but moved silently into the room, glancing between his friends' faces with a question in his eyes.

(Marius NPC'ed by Emmy with permission)

[Deleted]

[/b]

He shakes his head at that, the very thought baffles the mind. The government should be made by the people, and it should serve the people and it's interests. Too long, that has not been true. Surely the people have reached the point where they would rather fight and possibly die than cower as a slave while the King takes their last crumbs of happiness.

"If tonight has proven anything. It shows that the monarchy is willing to take innocent lives. I do not think it will be hard to convince the people that if the government thinks it can take their life with no consequences. Then surely they would rather fight? Surely, they will see that all of us may succeed. The government can be toppled, if we embrace the idea of brotherhood and fight for each other." Enjolras knows the people are capable and he knows that they are tired. He can also feel, as Courfeyrac says, that they are angry. Angry as he is. They don't fight out of anger though, they fight from a place of love and enlightenment. They don't want to take up arms, but in this world, that is how what is right must be defended, by violence, by justice.

He is softened though, because Combeferre looks at him and his eyes shine back with faith and trust, with the truest friendship that Enjolras has ever known really. Those eyes say they do have faith in him, and it softens him a little in satisfaction. Now is not the time to speak more on it though.

Jehan finds his way into the group, looking rather a rumpled mess and there is a scarlet bloom on his white shirt that doesn't belong to him. He about to ask him about it when they all start slightly at the knock to their door of their private back room. It is Courfeyrac who starts for the door, but it is no need for concern.

It is no National Guardsmen come to take them away for treason, only the little gamine who flits about their number, Gavroche. A clever boy, far older than his years in street smarts of Paris, and often an invaluable resource for information and passing messages and other little errands they needed accomplished.

At the announcement though, he cannot help but feel he is struck to the heart. Lamarque is dead. Oh, he knew he was ill. They all had, struck with Cholera so they said. Now struck down by it, like so many, like too many. Surely this, is the sign to spur them to action. Surely this is fate sent to guide them. The death of the only Champion of the common man and the working man in the government, now struck down by a disease that has killed so many of the very people that General Lamarque spoke for. If Aurélien were a poetic sort of man, he would say that history could not write out their next course of action more clearly than she already has.

"Lamarque is dead." He repeats the words, his voice soft. "And how shall we honor this Champion of the people?" He asks them all. He is sad, he mourns Lamarque, he mourns him the way he would mourn any other great man, any other man who truly fought for France.

"The state, the monarchy, they shall claim General Lamarque as their own. They will bury him in all manner of finery, and they will mourn and cry into their black silk handkerchiefs. They will give him pomp and circumstance and a last moment of glory. Then they shall go back to their manors and opulent offices and they will forget him. They will forget what he stood for. They will cry for him and yet they will trod over his banner and his mantle as soon as they are done." He says, working himself up a little bit.

"I say that the people give him their own send-off. The government will give him a party of false honor, but the people whom he fought for? They will rise to pick up his banner. They will tell the government in a shouting voice that Lamarque belongs to the people, as the government ought to!" He says solidly.

"This is the spark that we need, if this does not spur the people into action. Than I think nothing else will. The iron is hot and I say that we strike it while it remains so, and in doing so- we will reshape France."[/ul]

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly felt a twinge of pity at Jehan's bloodstained, haggard appearance. If it turned to fighting, of course, they would all look at least as bad as Prouvaire when the barricades went up—but the exhaustion and stress visible on his friend's face made Feuilly's heart go out to the poet. The young man's words were brave, and Feuilly couldn't help but admire him—still a poet even after he had experienced something terrible. He offered him a smile, despite the grim feeling that filled him in the face of the situation.

He regretted that he had not gotten see the hope in the eyes of those who received pamphlets before the parade. So many could not read them, but even among the illiterate there were those who simply knew what was written on the printed pages. That itself was sign enough that the revolutionary mood in the city was nearing its climax, that without even much more impetus the people would so willingly rise... It was rare that Feuilly could join them in passing out such pamphlets, for his work mostly kept him from such daytime activities, but the few times he had stood out in his mind. They were connecting with people otherwise separated from them, and any time the eyes of some worker, some orphan, some other individual afloat in the sea that was Paris glimmered in recognition of the words written there Feuilly felt his heart soar. He was not alone. They were not alone. The people were there, always, ready and willing and so tremendously able to deliver the world one country at a time.

As much as Feuilly agreed with Combeferre that violence was absolutely objectionable, he could think of no other option to bring a change quick enough to help the average Parisian. The people. His line of work was not even particularly dangerous, and he had never been so naïve as to believe that his life would be long. Single, childless, he had less to lose than many of their brothers in the people—just as the students did—but cholera was the more immediate threat for most. A bullet, at least, would be quicker and perhaps more painless than death by disease.

But such thoughts, both gloomy and high-minded, ground to a halt at the words passed to Courfeyrac by the young Gavroche. Lamarque was dead, by the same cholera that could destroy any of them at a stroke. Inhuman forces were able to kill them just as the National Guard could, and at least in an uprising there would be a reason for their deaths. He glanced immediately to Enjolras, eager to hear their leader's words even as he was saddened by the news. Lamarque... gone, and with him whatever hope there had been within the powers of the state.

Which left nothing but revolution. Well, new life could never come without pain, so he had heard... He felt almost shaky, tired. His eyes remained fixed on Enjolras, caught up in the spirit of the man's words. If anyone in this room could carry on the memory of Lamarque, I hat was Enjolras. Feuilly felt what had been only sorrow transform into what he supposed was a righteous anger under the weight of their leader's words. What right had their oppressors to honor Larmarque and then forget what Larmarque had meant? A state funeral was certainly not the definition of the name on the lips of the people of France...

They had wanted their catalyst. Feuilly, aware of mortality as much as anyone in the room, had not expected it to be another death. But the catalyst had come, and the people would feel it and join them. Their will would change the world.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]827 WORDS FOR les amis No notes at present. BLOOD! [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]And just because Jean found himself willing to fight, that did not mean he was entirely sure that it was a good idea. He felt absolutely torn between Aurèlien and Combe. He sighed to himself as he leaned his elbows on the table. He knew if his mother could see, she would scold him - certainly not the least of which would be for putting his elbows on a table - even if it wasn't that fancy of a table. And the most of which would probably be for agreeing to join a revolution against the King of France. Ugh. Jehan had always been frustrated and confused about the disagreements between he and his family about things like that. Well.. he suppose he couldn't say his family because he hadn't ever discussed or debated it with anyone else other than his father - but -they- had had plenty of debates. Particularly in his father's study late at night after the women of the household had gone to bed and he and his father were sitting in their smoking jackets with glasses of red wine. That scenario had become all too common since Jean had gone away to school in Paris - whenever he visited home. Jean had to admit that when all rights came to rights.. he was a monarchist. And he hoped there was a time that a King could make it work. However, human nature seemed to make that impossible. Because Jean also understood the social plight of the workers and the women and the children. People that the government - especially in monarchies - seemed to shun, to just want to brush under the carpet with their troubles and filth and such. And that wasn't right either. There needed to be balance. To have a truly worthy monarchy (and being a poet and an idealist that was the only kind Jean would have wanted - ideal and perfect) - it needed to be like.. like the legends of King Arthur or something, a truly wonderful king - a king who cared for the poor and took care of the needs of all of the people in his whole country instead of lining his pockets. More suspicious people would have said that that kind of a ruler wasn't possible. That human nature didn't allow for it. But Jean was convinced that wasn't true. He hadn't become such a pessimist on human nature just yet. That said, their current situation was not that and was far from that. And Jean felt it was his generation's duty to change it until they realized that goal. Even if it might mean backsliding a little way by getting rid of the current monarchy and scrapping everything and starting over. But his father couldn't understand that - he saw it as a lack of loyalty. But, it was different for Jean. Nevertheless, there was no love lost between the father and son and they continued their good natured debates. But standing here. Now. Jean knew that it wasn't a banter of words or just a debate. It was really going to happen. It was hard for him to imagine leading the people of France in an armed uprising where those arms would be used if need be to make the government see their point. Whatever hesitance had been in the group before seemed gone by Gavroche's startling news about General LeMarque - something else that made Jean's stomach churn. He hoped that this catalyst wasn't going to cause them all to make a decision they'd regret based on strong emotional feeling in the moment. He was worried that something like that might happen. If they acted in haste on emotional feelings - there might be hell to pay. And looking into Combeferre's serious eyes he knew they were both thinking the same thing. But at the same time, he'd been Aurèlien's friend since they were both in dresses! - just little toddlers.. He felt he owed him some loyalty too. And the look on the others' faces was so jubilant and fervent... how could he either stand against them? He sighed and ran his hands through his hair as he often did as he was thinking. "This is sad news indeed. About General LeMarque. Peace on his ashes." Jean said quietly, his voice a mere whisper. "I suppose it decides our next course of action. As I have said even in this meeting, I will support whatever decision.. but please let us consider carefully everything that has been said before this event... let us be absolutely certain about this.. " He looked sad. "I would be sad.. not to be sitting here with all of you. So before any decisions are made. I must offer a toast to our friendship. As it is in this moment. To nothing ever changing even if ...." He didn't finish it, instead raising his glass. "And to General LeMarque. The People's Hero. our. Hero." [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0