Ficlet: Paris1832!Mordred for squishy
Courfeyrac had found him somewhere, a slight dark Englishman of perhaps thirty, who laughed more than he smiled, and whose eyes had a weary look. He professed to hate politics; but his apathy had more style than Grantaire's. He traded arcane Latin quips with Jehan, talked history with Feuilly, went out at odd times to roam the streets with Bahorel, looking for trouble.
He was present at the barricade, although no one quite knew why, or for how long. He was quiet through all the preparations, the frenzy of construction and the hours of waiting. It was late in the night that Courfeyrac noticed him, sitting alone near the back of the wine-shop. At the first sounds of assault, he dropped his head into his hands.
No one expected it when he came forward during one of their momentary respites: furious, accusing, resolute. "Idealists," he cried. "God damn you all. Give me a sword. I refuse to put up with this." It was given him. None of them, had they lived to be asked, could have said for certain that they saw him fall.