Nunquam Erit


~~~5~~~
Perire

When she heard Marius was wounded, dying, nearly torn to shreds by the battles at the barricades, her first thought was for him. Her second was for the men who wouldn't have his second chance.

She made bandages day upon the day, and while she tore and sewed she prayed and cried and worried. She imagined the horrors that Marius must have seen. She had heard him talk of his friends often. She wondered how each had died, what their last thoughts had been, if they had felt betrayed and shattered in dying without accomplishing, or if they had believed that their deaths must prove the bravery and longing of these men of France. She wondered if Marius had seen each of his friends fall, and she ached at the idea of watching men he had shared dreams with drown in blood without ever their dreams coming true.

She found that it had become a wild obsession, that she couldn't help but desire to know these schoolboys who sang for a dawning new world. Courfeyrac, who Marius had been roommate to; Enjolras, who had led them, and whom Marius had revered until he met her, and then still held a deep respect for. She wished to have known them, for then she could truly know what their sacrifice was for and what made it burn like a fire in their eyes and minds and hearts.

When she heard Marius was becoming ill, when she heard he might not achieve recovery from the trauma and the injury he had received, she began to split. She loved Marius; she needed him. He was her world, her everything. And he also held the key. He could tell her about his companions of ideals in detail. He alone could tell her if Jehan Prouvaire laughed like a soft stream bubbling over mossy rocks, or like a nervous doe sidestepping behind a fir. He was the only one who could say if Feuilly's hands were calloused and worn, but still warm and gentle, or if hard work and little pay had made them bitter. She loved Marius, but already she loved the men who he had fought beside. She needed them all, and therefore she needed Marius most.

She would have given anything to give him life. She would have sacrificed anything to gain the promise that Marius and all his friends would live. She longed to walk with him, to laugh with him, to hear what he had to say; and she yearned to hear what Combeferre or Joly had to say as well. If he fell into darkness, with him the barricades would fall and be lost. Marius knew the story of the men there. Marius was the last who could tell it. She would have made any bargain with Death for his life and stories. If she had thought she was powerful enough, she might have argued for them. Instead she was left to beg.

Death asks no one which men He has a right to. Love and passion, bravery and sacrifice, cannot be explained to Him. It cannot be said, "This man is life. There are still futures for him; there are still dreams he has not dreamed." It cannot be shown to Him the difference of young and old, of alive and tired. He is deaf, and He cannot hear pleas; He is blind and He cannot see tears. He collects, and then the stories belong to Him.

Marius was buried in a quiet, but fine, old graveyard. The white marble that served him for a marker was beautifully carved and bore the tears of both Cosette and his grandfather. The inscription was simple, a message of love. But in Cosette's heart, different words were engraved. She mourned the loss of the one she loved, and like a wild despair mourned the loss of the ones she could only imagine.

He was one man who carried within himself the souls and spirits of many. They died with him, and he died with them.


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