Note: This sequel to The Brothers can be read separately.

Thanks to askmeaboutmyotp for the idea for this story!

*sneaks in with the story and then runs away*

"The barricade has fallen." Pierre Tremblay's voice was flat, his face pasty and almost expressionless.

His sister, Musichetta, spoke, her voice shaking. "What do you mean, Pierre?"

He looked away. "It's gone. The National Guard destroyed it." He lowered his voice. "We lost."

Silence filled the room.

Musichetta stood, wobbling a little. She lurched at her brother, wrathful. "How dare you tease me now, Pierre! This is no time for playing with me. Now tell me, where is Hyacinthe?"

Pierre responded without emotion. "I don't know."

"Liar!" she shrieked, pounding her fists on his chest. He took the treatment stoically. Between her angry accusations, sobs cut through the heavy air.

I stared at what I could see of the floor over my protruding stomach. I felt cold, and nothing else. I sensed Mireille Lavoie on one side of me on the couch and little Odette François on the other. The only sound in the room was Musichetta's screaming.

At last she quieted to sniffles and leaned limply against her brother. He led her back to the couch, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and stood motionless, staring at the space above our heads.

Mireille's voice quivered, "Do you think we could go over to the barricade and see . . . and see if they need help?"

What did she mean by help? But whatever it was, we needed to return to the barricade and see what happened to our boys.

"I think so."

My heart fluttered, my first feeling besides cold, when I realized Pierre knew it was useless to return.

I put that aside, though, and took Odette's small hand. "Come on," I said and stood, but she pulled back.

"What reason have I to go?" she whispered. "Alexandre is already-"

"Don't say it," Musichetta hissed.

Odette lowered her head.

The words came out painfully and haltingly. "Then – perhaps – you can – take him – home."

Odette said nothing, but after a moment took my hand again. We followed Pierre out of the house and down the death-like streets in silence. Instead of coming to the barricade by the way we had left it the night before, the back, we came to it by the front. We stopped at the head of the street and stared. My heart turned.

Dead soldiers littered the cobblestones all the way up to the barricade, which was now fallen and blasted apart and smoking rubble. A few people wandered around, silent as the streets. Blood ran in the gutters.

Pierre started forward, but we hung back. I saw soldiers, live ones, milling around behind the remains of the barricade. Though the presence of other civilians must have meant it was safe, I did not feel secure here. Of course, I felt almost nothing.

Pierre turned and smiled a very small smile. "It's all right."

We cautiously joined him, picking our way amongst the bodies, living and dead. Just outside the barricade, I stepped in a pool of blood. Nausea rose in my throat and I wavered, but Mireille caught me and guided me on. Beyond the barricade stood the Corinth wine shop, which our boys haunted in days past. The windows were broken now, the door torn off its hinges. The solders ignored us as we stepped inside.

In a dream, I saw the boys, the young men I once knew, lined up on the floor of the Corinth, where they used to stand and drink and laugh. They lay stiff and cold now, their clothes torn and bloody. A scream ripped through the dream, and Musichetta threw herself on one of the boys, gentle Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly, who was always smiling, always laughing. She tangled a hand in his damp, bloody blonde curls, and stroked his pale cheek with the other. She kissed his lips over and over, weeping, "Hyacinthe, how could you do this to me? How could you? You stupid, stupid, lovely boy."

Mireille wandered down the line until she found André Courfeyrac. She made no sound, but knelt beside him and stroked his hair.

Odette trembled beside me for a long while. At last she tiptoed, as if the boys were merely sleeping and she did not want to wake them, down to Alexandre Bahorel. She had no more tears for him. Now she carefully moved the body next to his and slipped into the space between them, her head resting on his chest, watching his face. She looked rather like a child waiting for her father to awaken.

I did not want to look for Etienne. If I did not see him here, I could hold onto a tiny scrap of hope, though I saw all the others there: solemn Sacha Feuilly; statue-like Enjolras, their leader; that drunk, Mathieu Grantaire; Joly's best friend, Fernand Laigle; sweet Jean Prouvaire. There were others I did not recognize. Perhaps, maybe . . .

No.

I leaned against the doorframe, trying to breathe. Then I straightened and took a step. There, on the other side of Jean Prouvaire, lay my husband, Etienne Combeferre. I staggered over to him, collapsed on my knees, almost falling on top of him. He looked so strange, laying there with his pale blue eyes staring at the ceiling, his soft blonde hair stick-like from sweat and dirt and blood. My heart clenched and my lungs tightened when I saw the three cruel wounds in his torso. Who could do such a horrible thing? I thought, hardly able to breathe as I thought of the pain my love must have gone through. A tear escaped down my cheek as I leaned over and closed Etienne's eyes. Then I kissed his cold, white lips, tasting blood and the sourness of death. I didn't care. I kissed him again, longer.

I saw him the day I met him, when I went to a ball dressed as a bourgeois. I saw him sweeping an elaborate bow as he asked me if I would go on a picnic with him. I saw him proposing to me, slipping the ring on my finger and leaning in for a kiss, his mouth tasting of strawberry ice cream. His pale eyes shining, his smile brightening his face, dimples gracing his cheeks. André Courfeyrac once told me he almost never saw Etienne smile except when he was around me. I found this quite strange, as I thought Etienne naturally smiled often. I saw him holding me, dancing with me, saw the delight on his face when I told him we were parents.

I broke away with a sob and tried to rise, but I couldn't. The tears flowed freely. Mireille and Musichetta took each of my arms and pulled me to my shaking feet. Pierre picked me up and took me back to the Tremblay house.

The funeral was two days later. Before I knelt to place flowers at my love's grave, I handed my newborn daughter, Destiny Combeferre, to Odette. "Farewell, Etienne," I whispered. Then I stood, took Destiny back into my arms, and returned home.