Enjolras stood, golden and proud in the morning sun streaming through the window, the red flag in his hand, the red blood on his face. He stood alone in front of the soldier’s guns, and he did not flinch. He would die, and Grantaire could see that he had accepted that fact. There was determination in his eyes. He thought that his death meant something. Grantaire didn’t know if that was true, but he did know one thing:
He would not let Enjolras die alone.
He moved through the crowd of soldiers, and they parted for him. He went to Enjolras’s side. He took his hand.
You don’t believe in anything.
I believe in you.
Enjolras rose the red flag in defiance. The guns fired. Grantaire fell. Enjolras’s hand slipped out of his as he was thrown through the window.
Grantaire died. There was absolute blackness. There was absolute silence. He was free of suffering, he could finally sleep.