Rue de Hyacinth, Saint Michelle Paris, 2:34 am, June 5th, 1832
Grantaire woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily.
He had returned back to his lodgings not long after the meeting had ended, not able to bear getting drunk on this night, he couldn't bear to have his thoughts of the ones he loved become fuzzy on the eve of a day where they were surely to be taken from him.
In his dreams he had seen the barricades, seemingly not far into the future.
The sun was barely beginning to peak over the horizon but the sky was hazy with smoke, as he watched the barricade shudder under canon fire.
Around him his friends had been scattered, Provaire and Adrien missing, Bahorel's head bleeding, Alexander huddled over a body that seemed all too similar to Charles'.
Enjolras was screaming, though not for a retreat, but at someone leaning against the bottom of the barricade.
It was then that Grantiare had found the carbine in his arms, cocked and ready as he turned to see Jacquelyn, bleeding out, and begging him to take care of Enjorlas, to keep him safe.
He'd watched the life drain from their eyes, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn't, there was too much more he had to do, Combeferre was tugging Joly away from a dead Bossuet, toward the Musain, and Grantaire soon found himself doing the same for Enjolras as the national guardsmen screamed for a charge.
The sky was on fire, and he had to run, he had to get Enjolras out of there, he needed to keep him safe.
If he couldn't save Jacquelyn he could at least save Enjolras, he had too, Jacquelyn would come back to kill him.
The last thing he heard was a scream of a familiar voice, and then gunshots.
Then everything was gone and he was running through nothing, screaming for Enjolras and Jacquelyn, and then falling into nothing.
In the real world Grantaire buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs, he had to warn them- he had too.
There planned was doomed to failure, he had seen that from the beginning, but he'd never imagined it like this.
He'd warned them? Hadn't he?
This dream was the very thing he told them would happen.
He had to warn them.
But he couldn't.
He knew he couldn't.
Because no one ever believed Cassandra.
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The Darkest Night Will End
Fanfiction"There is a life, and there is a death, and there are beauty and melancholy in between." -Albert Camus In which three people, a marble man, a drunken cynic, and a tired soul, dragged through miserable lives tied together on some invisible string, f...
