"Then I was young and unafraid, and dreams were made and used and wasted..."

~I Dreamed A Dream


Everyone was shouting. Everyone rushed forward.

Bahorel got there first, that was all.

And the next thing Jehan knew, there was a body lying there and Bahorel was gone.

A sort of chill raced through Jehan's blood and he moved without knowing, fired without being conscious of his actions, every thought in his mind consumed in a strange pyre of something frightening because How can Bahorel be dead?

It brought the sheer darkness of reality back to the forefront of Jehan's head, that reality he spent as much time away from as possible, in fields and in flowers and in clouds and in songs and in words.

Of course he'd thought about dying before; hadn't every poet?

But it was never like this. He'd imagined before, in idle fancying or in the long minutes before falling asleep, the slipping away, the brief pain, even the glories afterwards, but it was for the poems that he'd envisioned those things. For himself. It was always Jehan's tendency to explore the abstract, to wonder, to dream, and it hadn't mattered before now that he'd written about things he didn't understand.

Jehan tried to drag himself back to the fighting that was happening, but the marsh his thoughts had wandered into was hard to climb out of.

Death was a very real thing, and it was idiotic to have assumed Bahorel was immune, but…

But he'd fought so often, and always he had come through, and now, when it mattered most, he was dead before it even truly began?

There were so many questions.

There was not enough time for Jehan to stop and actually realize the terrible reality that had just happened, that his friend was dead. Maybe that was a good thing.

Something slammed into Jehan's skull and the world's colors faded.

So he was to see Bahorel again sooner than he had expected.

Maybe that was a good thing too.