Summary: A sympathizer of Les Amis de l’ABC witnesses their courage and their eventual fall.
A/N: For the first time since joining the Les Mis fandom, I've never seen a much more relevant piece of media. Compounded with me watching the musical last Feb, a lot of shitty things that have been happening worldwide, and an incident that had hit too close to home, I thought I'd make a piece that was a fanfic as well just in time for Barricade Day. ANW SERIOUS A/N OVER. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE AND I TRIED TO MAKE IT AS HISTORICALLY ACCURATE AS POSSIBLE. ALSO MY FIRST TIME MAKING A GENDER NEUTRAL CHARACTER, SO PLS BE NICE. STICK TIL THE END FOR ANOTHER A/N. HAPPY READING! :D
No one in Paris could deny the brutal contrast between the lowest members of the highest members of French society. From the streets to the estates; from the rags to the frills and lace; from the scraps to the buffets. It was a comparison that the rich took with snobbish pride and the poor with longing and sometimes contempt. But both wanted more. The rich wanted more, a kind of want that they had and hoarded everything they need and didn’t—a kind of want where they were never satisfied even if they already had their fill. And the poor wanted more too, a kind of want that they’d do anything to get anything and everything they needed—a kind of want where getting scraps was never enough, but was almost always had to be.
And then those who were stuck in between. They had neither the streets nor the estates; neither the rags nor the frills and lace; and neither the scraps nor the buffets. They were stable, but only just. One misstep, and they’d lose everything.
But many, at some point, have drowned in the noise of their lives. Some have become too content in their marble estates that they’ve been taught not to see the troubles beyond its walls. Some have lost hope that their lives would ever change, living their last days with their begs and pleas falling upon deaf ears. And some have become indifferent in their barely-stable life, learning that demanding the more that they need was futile.
How could they not? When the government was much more bothered catering to the whims of the rich and powerful and ignoring the needs of the masses. How could they not, when a laborer would beg for scraps, the government would laugh, and he would be left to die? How could they not, when the rich stole for their fancy, they got a slap on the wrist; but when the poor stole food for their children, they were sentenced to imprisonment? How could they not, when merely speaking up for what was right, was returned with being silenced? The world they lived in was miserable; sickness spread like rats, hunger dominated the streets, and polluted water breached every crevice of Paris. The decline of their society and economy was all of the making of the government, who blamed the people for France’s misfortunes.
And yet, hope remained in the people who questioned. Questioned the state of society. Questioned the government. Questioned the policies that kept the poor poor and the rich rich. Questioned why people, who were suffering just as many others, were blind to the truth. Les Amis de l’ABC, they were called. The Friends of the ABC. Friends of the lowly.
They held meetings. They held rallies. They gave pamphlets and speeches to educate people of the deteriorating state of their society and their lives. They urged people to join them—a call to change the course of their pitiful lives. Most importantly, they gave the people something to hold onto.
And thus, they were the catalyst for many.
A figure in faded red stood in the sea of people who had gathered to listen to Enjolras, student-leader of Les Amis de l’ABC, speak at their rally. The figure strained their neck to catch a glimpse of him, with hair as bright as his mind. He spoke clearly, his message powerful; he spoke of policies and theories and power and stratification, but he did not speak in a way a book would. Despite his obviously educated background, he spoke for the people by speaking in their language, and not the language of textbooks or universities.
And so the figure stood in rapt attention. It was a waste of time, their family would tell them. Why would they care, when they were not begging for scraps or living in the streets? The people in their family had jobs, food, and a roof over their heads, what more could they want? Why should they concern themselves with the plight of others? Why would they care, even if one delayed wage could end them all?
But the figure in faded red was intrigued, yet they could not be there for every rally. They could not read every pamphlet or listen to every speech. Sometimes, when out on errands, they would listen to snippets of speeches. They would have brief encounters with some of the student-members—a short chat during the distribution of pamphlets led them to learn that Feuilly was the only workingman, but was struggling to make ends meet; or that an invitation to join them at the Cafe Musain would lead them to discovering the eloquent Combeferre was a surgeon. The members of the Amis then seemed more human than ever before.
Despite being intrigued, they found themselves declining unless it was utterly convenient for them. A knot of guilt would form in their gut, knowing that these students have been balancing their fight for a Republic with the other facets of their life. They would not join a rally, unless they had the time, and they so happened to be there already. They would not accept a pamphlet, unless they could hide it from their family or had time to read it. But their eyes and mind had never shut again, and the spark of intrigued never dimmed but also never grew.
But in every rally that they could catch, every speech that they could listen to, they would always think, “Enjolras would make a good leader of the Republic someday. He has my support now and in the future.”
They and their family lived in Place Saint-Michel, near the Cafe Musain. It was not uncommon to see the students passing by, especially in the chilly breeze of the evening and in the biting cold of midnight. They would greet the students, sometimes, when they would cross paths on the streets. Sometimes, they would lean out on their window of their flat and tend to their budding red poppies, while watching the lively students walk the street. Oftentimes, the students would carry nothing but themselves, with the occasional stack of pamphlets to be distributed to the people. But tonight, the street was filled with people. The students carried muskets and weapons, and they called upon the people, and the people answered. It was loud. There no grand speeches, only the excited shouts of a bright future right on their fingertips. The smell of gunpowder wafted through the cold night. Tonight, the streets were red with the flags of the revolution and the Republic.
And as the students led the people on the march in the street, as the flag of France and the revolution were waved down there and in the windows of the people, our figure watched with awe. They did not join, however, merely watching from above. They understood and believed in the students’ cause, but they remained in their spot by their window, surrounded by the buds of their red poppies.
The following day was the funeral of General Lamarque. It was a public event, as were all funerals of great men of the government; the people were almost required to attend. They went with their family, once again wearing faded red. Under the shadow of the Elephant of the Bastille, they squeezed in the crowd of mourners. Up front, they could see Enjolras in his blood red coat. And as the carriage carrying the casket passed them, the student-leader in blood red surged forward to wave a flag that looked as if it were made from the same cloth as his coat.
As the other students and workers surged and seized control of the carriage, banners and flags of red and the Republic flew ablaze in the wind. The orderly line that the National Guard wanted broke, the dam breaking to release the sea of people demanding for better and for more. A cacophony of “Vive la France!” and “Vive General Lamarque!” resounded from the people. Then angry shouts and gunshots started to mix; the National Guard had started firing and tried to rein in the crowd.
Their family took them and retreated back to their flat at Place Saint-Michel. Their family did not want to be associated with them, “unnecessary rabble. Created nothing but trouble for everyone. Should’ve stuck to mourning the dead. We’ll be safe here, away from it all.”
Their heart thumped heavily in their chest, as if it were bashing against the ribcage, demanding to be set loose. They sat on a chair, their mind trying to wrap around what had just happen, when they heard the angry shouts and urgent commands and the faint smell of gunpowder. They looked out their window to see that the rabble rousers have arrived. The cobblestone street was replaced by the heads of people escaping the gunfire and moving towards a new dawn. Change waited for no one, they realized.
Soon, the students moved into the surrounding buildings, houses, and establishments. They took any and whatever pieces of furniture they could find, dragging them towards just outside the Cafe Musain; chairs, tables, benches, even an old piano was not spared. Some of their neighbors were generous enough to throw down their own pieces of furnitures before the students could even ask. They were starting to pile high outside the Cafe, an amalgamation of the students’ vision and the people’s support. A barricade to safeguard the future Republic.
Without warning, the door to their apartment burst open. Their family screamed in shock as the students apologized while taking some chairs and a table. But they themselves showed no resistance at all. They glanced at their family, who were fighting with the students for the furniture, and made no move to help or resist. Enjolras then stepped forward, reaching towards the chair they had sat on. Their breathing became labored; would they help these people, who have now obviously turned themselves into criminals for the people, or would they do nothing, and distance themselves from a fight that they thought wasn’t theirs?
When they did nothing, Enjolras got the chair and held it with reverence, as if it were a holy relic rather than a simple sitting tool. With a kind “thank you”, and armful of wooden furnitures, the students left. A hole was left somewhere deep within them, too. It was as if something that should be inside them didn’t exist. They wanted to run down and join the students on the barricades, but what good would that do? What did they hope to achieve? So they did nothing.
The remaining hours seemed to pass by in such a painstaking speed. They and their family dared not to venture out in fear of getting shot or involuntarily thrown into the mess. God forbid they and their family be mistaken as part of the insurrectionists. So they stayed still. It wasn’t until the first round of gunfire did the family move. They took cover in whatever remaining furniture or features they had in the flat. Our figure stayed away from the window where their red poppies were, leaning instead against the wall farthest from the barricades. Their hands flew over their ears as the bang bang bang of guns rang out. Their ears felt like imploding. Their heart pounded in rhythm with the sound of gunfire, their heart and guns outside were in such harmony, they felt as if they were being shot as well.
BANG! THUMP!
BANG BANG! THUMP THUMP!
As the gunfire ceased, they slumped against the wall. They felt as if they had been the one out there fighting. Should they go down and help their wounded? Perhaps not, it was still risky even if the fighting had paused.
And as their heart’s pace slowed down, their eyes drooped as well. The world turned dark and quiet.
BOOM!
They were once again awoken by a deep and heavy sound. As they heard it, the very floorboards and their being seemed to tremble in tandem. Their heart started thumping rapidly again as the gunshots resounded once more. They crawled towards the window with the budding red poppies and gazed down below.
They could barely see. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could see vague figures on the ground, unmoving. Some were of the National Guards but many were students. Some they recognized. In the flashes of guns and cannons, they could vaguely spot outlines of figures running to the nearby houses and buildings.
“HELP!”
If it was possible, they jolted and froze at the same time.
BAM BAM BAM! “LET US IN! PLEASE!”
They stared down. The barricade had fallen, and students were fleeing and seeking refuge from the very people who had given them support.
Should they let the students in?
Perhaps not. After all, the Amis had many supporters. Surely, many of them would help the students.
They withdrew from the window and returned to their wall. They covered their ears once more, drowning out the sounds of the fight and the pleas of the students. Their eyes were tightly shut, blocking out the sights of the bodies on the street and the students pounding on the doors. And their heart thumped rhythmically along with the gunshots, closing themselves to the very people trying to fight for more doors to open for the citizens of France. In their huddled state, safe in their flat, they did not see the people of Paris turning their backs on those that fought for them.
As the pleas of the students were silenced, as the sounds of the cannons halted, as the crying stopped, as the gunfire ceased, their heart slowed.
Thump thump thump…
Thump thump…
Thump…
Thump…
With their eyes closed tight, they saw nothing but darkness, nothing different from the world outside. They fell into a restless slumber, the dark in front of their eyes occasionally flashing with blood red shapes.
They awoke the next morning to the quiet of the outside. Their family was bustling about, bringing in the chairs and table that the students had borrowed yesterday. The pieces of furniture were mostly damaged but still useful after they’ve been fixed.
The bright ray of sun caught their eyes, so they walked towards the window to close it. Instead, they found themselves stunned. Their red poppies had bloomed into vivid, strong, petals of red. And below in the street, was a sea of red. Not of flags or banners or even clothes. It was the red of the students, a glaring dark crimson puddle of their sacrifice. And somehow, the figure looking down felt the red drain from their face. They felt a nasty, cold and biting shiver crawl down their spine. They watched as the red of the streets was being washed by the grey of contaminated water as people started scrubbing the quiet cobblestone street of Place Saint-Michel. And so, our figure in faded red took a pair of scissors and gently cut the red poppies from their stems.
They went out in the streets, ignoring the women cleaning them and ignoring the men of the National Guard lingering about. Their nose scrunched up with the nasty mix of smells, but they forced themself onwards. They walked the short distance to the Cafe Musain.
No lively banter.
No heated debates.
No smell of food.
In front were bloodied figures of men. They were lined up, but not one in front of the other as if awaiting trial; they were lined up on the ground, side by side. Enjolras was the first in line, as he always had been for them. His blood red coat stood up amongst the others, but blended well with their wounds.
They knelt down in front of the fair-headed student-leader first. They reverently placed a red poppy on his chest, as if it were a holy relic that would save his soul instead of a simple flower.
For Enjolras, the law student.
And one by one, they knelt down for the rest of the fallen members of Les Amis de l’ABC.
For Combeferre, the surgeon.
For Courfeyrac, the center.
For Feuilly, the workingman.
For Joly, the medical student.
For Lesgle, the man with the eternal smile.
For Bahorel, the witty gentleman.
For Prouvaire, the poet.
For Gavroche, the little boy who found his family with the students.
And for Grantaire, the cynic and critic who stood with Enjolras to the very end.
They did not return home. Instead, they went to the nearest and cheapest bookstore they could find. They recalled the thinkers Enjolras would cite, and pulled out all the books that they could find.
They spent the rest of their life reading. Learning. Making up for what they should have done for the students.
And so in 1848, they fought in the Revolution, helping to establish the Second Republic. The monarchy was gone, and the people were given hope. But they hadn’t only fought for the current and future citizens of France, but they also fought for the martyrs of the past that were failed by the people they fought for.
Today, perhaps this story may resonate with some of us. Some of us may have been through similar experiences. When those who have sworn to serve and protect its people start to fail, be aware, and do not remain blind in your comfort. Must we wait for someone to give their life to start fighting for the safety and the needs we are obliged?
~~~
A/N: I hope yall caught the red poppies thing (and i hope i interpreted and used the meaning/symbolism properly 💀)
"Your son will take your throne from you," they prophesized, spitting each word out of teeth clenched tight with hatred. Why they'd bother prophesizing such an event befuddles you; your son is literally your chosen heir, after all.
Years later, you realize what the prophets meant. For most of your life your son was your pride and joy; an academic, who would surely lead the kingdom into greater health and wellness. Until he committed the ultimate act of betrayal.
"You will not take my throne from me!" You cling to your grand chair so hard your knuckles turn white.
Your son sighs. "Dad. Dad it's lead-"
"Of course it's lead! It's a strong metal, signifying the strength of our country- this throne has been passed down the royal line for 300 years, 15 rulers before me-"
"That is not enough time for that many people!" Your son throws his hands up in the air. "Because it is lead! It is poisoning you! Didn't you wonder why grandpa died at 40?"
"Ah, pfoo! That's the ancestral curse."
"It's the throne! The throne is the ancestral curse!!!"
the son successfully convinces his father to give up the lead throne. he lives and rules peacefully for much longer than his family’s previous generations, dying in his third score.
the son, upon coronation, receives his own prophecy: “your daughter will tear your castle to the ground.”
now, this is a bit more of a cause for immediate concern, but unlike kings of old, he decides that the best way to avoid this surely gruesome future is to love his daughter the best he can, encourage her interests, and guide her with a steady hand - if she is to ruin his kingdom, after all, then let it be with iron will and care for the people.
his daughter is not violent at all, will only hunt if they promise the kitchens will cook what is killed and will give some to the people, and only takes a passing fancy in swordsmanship (which he thinks is more to do with the jawline of the instructor, not that he says anything). she loves to study and read, and when she asks to go for further education in a different corner of the kingdom, he allows it.
after one year, she returns, and spends the first week back acting shifty. she is always caught ducking out of corners and hidden passages, whispering with staff, and pouring over old maps of the castle layout in the library, hurriedly covering them up when anyone passes.
he privately gets his affairs in order.
two weeks after her return, the king’s daughter approaches her father with a steely look in her eye and a grim set to her jaw.
“father,” she begins, “what do you know of asbestos?”
do you know what the meanings of the cape leadwort (Plumbago auriculata) plant are? there's a shrub of the plant in front of my house and i feel like it could be potentially useful.
I’m sorry, I don’t know :( but if anyone seeing this knows, please add!
Hey, hope you don’t mind me dropping in on this post!
P. auriculata has a multitude of traditional medicinal and other uses, especially in India, as it is native there. I will say that with any garden plant, you must be sure before putting it in or on your body that it hadn’t been treated with pesticides or exposed to excessive car exhaust from people driving by, parking, etc. NOW, the good stuff:
Traditional uses (i.e., those lacking empirical evidence): In India, a stalk of the plant was placed in the thatched roof of huts to keep lightning from striking the structure. The powdered, roasted root was rubbed into scarifications made over bone fractures to expedite their healing. Certain peoples in western India drink the root juice to negate gastric acidity before meals. In East Africa, flowers and leaves are used as a beige to golden yellow dye for cloth. The root sap, greyish blue in colour, has been used for tattoos. I have also seen mention of the root steeped for a few weeks in olive oil making a good salve for itchy skin.
A study published in 2015 in the International Journal of Pharmaceutical Sciences found that the most pharmacologically and biologically active compound in P. auriculata is plumbagin (C11H8O3; 5-hydroxy-2-methyl-1,4-naphthoquinone). An ethanolic extract of the roots showed antibacterial activity against Heliobacter pylori with a significant zone of inhibition in vitro. This extract may also find use in tandem with antibiotics to prevent the spread of plasmid-based antibiotic resistance in a hospital setting. An ethanolic leaf extract showed significant antioxidant contect. Plumbagin on its own has significant toxicity against mosquito (Aedes aegypti) larvae (LC50 of 5.43 micrograms/mL). Tests of P. auriculata extract against ranitidine showed significant anti-ulcer activity.
Other studies show antimutagenic, cardiotonic, and antifertility properties. Cancer studies in mice showed significant antitumour effects against Ehrlich ascites carcinoma. An ethanolic extract of the leaves is active against herpes simplex virus type 1.
WARNINGS: plumbagin can cause severe dermatitis and blistering of the skin, so handle all parts of the plant with care and caution. Large amounts, when ingested, can cause respiratory failure, paralysis, and death. I do not recommend ingesting this plant in any raw botanical form. This is NOT a home cure.
so if in the soulmate au the very first words your soulmate ever says to you are tattooed somewhere on your body since the day you are born imagine having something like ‘man I cant believe dumbledore died’ tattooed on you. imagine being spoiled for a book series that doesnt even exist yet. imagine worrying about this dumbledore guy your whole childhood while not knowing who he is. imagine knowing dumbledore dies before jk rowling even thinks about it.
So you finally find your soulmate. After years of knowing that dumbledore dies and the entire franchise being ruined, you find him. You’re in the theatre, dumbledore is dead and you hear it. ‘Man I can’t believe dumbledore died’ by a guy walking right by you and in you’re rage you shout ‘You! You’re the one!’ The guy stops, looks at you, his own arm to read the words, then back at you and he says, “That’s not really how I imagined that being said”
#if you want the pedantic answer bc I’ve actually researched this for my thesis#there doesn’t seem to be a for sure agreed upon origin of the phrase BUUUUUT#it seems to be a combo of two earlier phrases ‘coming out’ and ‘skeletons in the closet’#coming out started to be used by gay men in 1920s new york bc a “coming out” was the 1st time a debutante would debut into the dating scene#so gay men would have their “coming out” when they first went onto the gay dating scene#a skeleton in your closet is a shameful/dirty secret that would often only be revealed once a person died#for a lot of queer people their queerness was something they literally took to the grave#so being ‘in the closet’ meant you were the skeleton in your closet#I couldn’t find an exact confirmation of when the phrases began to be combined but it seems to be around early 1970s gay liberation movemen#at the time a popular protest chant was ‘out of the closet and into the streets’#which I think also helped to popularize the term#I’m putting all this in the tags bc I realize this is a silly post that is meant as a joke and I didn’t wanna ruin the punchline#but I also wanted to provide an answer for those who were curious
Your purpose in life is not to love yourself but to love being yourself.
If you goal is to love yourself, then your focus is directed inward toward yourself, and you end up constantly watching yourself from the outside, disconnected, trying to summon the “correct” feelings towards yourself or fashion yourself into something you can approve of.
If your goal is to love being yourself, then your focus is directed outward towards life, on living and making decisions based on what brings you pleasure and fulfillment.
Be the subject, not the object. It doesn’t matter what you think of yourself. You are experiencing life. Life is not experiencing you.
self isolating to cope is great until you look up one day and years have passed and you realise no one knew you when you were 18 or 19 or 20 or 21 and now they never will
the great thing about un-isolating yourself is that you can literally start making friends whenever you want, and most people will continue to do so through the rest of their lives. you will meet new people at 28 and 37 and 43 and 56 and 61 and 72 and 85 and 94 who will love you.
you will spend the rest of your life meeting people who will love you.
literally though if you feel like your life is slipping through your fingers and every day goes too fast… try doing hard things, not just taking the easy route, like reading and making art and exercising and cooking a meal from scratch and journaling, doing these things without distraction, without being absorbed on a screen… the time will stretch and you’ll be reminded that life is long and beautiful if you make it so.
[id: screenshot of the following tumblr tags: #this is literally it. this has psychological support. #time as we perceive it "slows down" during new and/or challenging experiences #because our brains are encoding more details about the experience. more data = larger file size = a "longer" memory #hence time "slowing down" during highly stressful events. in fight/flight/freeze we take in A LOT of detail that we otherwise wouldn't #and one of the reasons childhood and adolescence feel so long in retrospect is because we were having novel experiences all the time! #the older we get the less "new" everything is #UNLESS we make an effort to continue learning and growing and trying new things whenever we can. #it's not only good for you but your life will literally feel longer. time will literally feel slower. #anyway i just think it's neat. :^) #psych #tags /end id]
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