A/N: This story is dedicated to the brave students who lost their lives during the June Rebellion of 1832. Happy Barricade Day!

June Rebellion- June 5-6, 1832.

Requiem

"Vive le république! I belong to it!" Enjolras' head turned to look at Grantaire, his cold blue eyes widened in utter amazement. "Do not shoot this man," Grantaire said to the soldier whose gun was currently aimed at Enjolras' chest.

"I must," replied the soldier with a frown. "He is the leader of this rebellion. He must be made an example of."

"Go, Wine-Cask," hissed Enjolras from his place against the wall. "Save yourself. I am content to die thus." But Grantaire did not move from where he stood. In fact, he drew in a deep breath and said with as much conviction as he could muster: "He is not the leader. I am." The look that crossed Enjolras' face was a mixture of confusion and astonishment. Why would Grantaire say such a thing?

"You are the leader?" repeated the soldier, incredulity in his expression.

"Yes," replied Grantaire. "This man has done no harm. Let him go…" He turned his head to smile gently at Enjolras. "And I will willingly give myself up to you."

The soldiers conferred with one another for a moment, before they glanced at Grantaire and nodded. He took Enjolras' position against the wall, and waited for Death. Who would mourn Grantaire, the drunkard, the Wine-Cask? Who was left to mourn him? Yes, this was a much better thing than allowing Apollo to fall.

Those beautiful blue eyes met his for what he believed would be the last time. "Grantaire," Enjolras whispered, his tone the closest to begging than Grantaire had ever heard him use, "don't."

"Ready! Aim!"

"No…" Enjolras murmured, wanting to speak up; desperately wishing to tell them that they were wrong. Grantaire was lying! Of all of the men on that barricade, he was the least likely to be the leader! He was only doing this because… Why was he doing this? Why couldn't he speak? Why couldn't Enjolras say anything? He was dumbstruck with horror.

"Fire!"

He didn't hear the shots: the eight shots that fired from those guns, piercing Grantaire's skin. Enjolras heard only the scream: a bloodcurdling scream that seemed to be composed of nothing but pain and sorrow. It took him a while to realize that it had come from his own lips. A moment passed, then two, then three. The soldiers were gone. Cowards, thought Enjolras, to flee without giving me the chance to avenge him.

His hands were shaking when he went forward to collect the body. But where to take it? He couldn't leave it here; that was certain. He had to… Oh, Grantaire! He'd had the bravest heart of them all! Why hadn't Enjolras seen it? Why had he treated him so cruelly? "Grantaire, you are incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death." What wouldn't he give to take it back?

Then, from the bloodied mass on the floor, came a soft voice. "Apollo… you're… not hurt? They kept their word?"

"Grantaire! You fool! Why…?" Enjolras dropped to his knees beside him. He did not finish his question. Why did you do that? He already knew the answer. "I must get help." He began to rise- surely there was someone left! Anyone at all who could save Grantaire!

"No…" Grantaire turned his face upward, searching frantically for Enjolras. "Stay." His hand moved weakly to find Enjolras', and grasped it as tightly as it could. The Statue stared down at him, a single tear on his marble face. "I feared you were wounded…" whispered Grantaire, "when I heard your scream."

"No, I'm fine." Enjolras closed his eyes, his mind replaying every terrible thing he'd ever said. How malicious he'd been toward this man… this man who lay dying in his place. "Forgive me."

"Nothing… to… forgive…" Grantaire's eyes began to close, and his grip on Enjolras' hand loosened. "You… were all that I… ever loved." The hand fell limp, the body slack against the blood-stained floor.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras kissed his forehead, knowing that no matter where he was, Grantaire could feel it.

His great soul had taken flight.