The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and - as the night wore on, with dwindling ammunition and men - desperation. Enjolras surveyed the situation grimly, but he was determined to forge on. If we don't keep going, what will it all have been for? Behind the ramshackle barricade of old chairs, threadbare setees, and writing desks, lay dozens of wounded and dead revolutionaries. After their last attack, the army had retreated; but he knew it would only last as long as it took to reload and treat their own injuries. Combeferre and Joly were everywhere, using tablecloths and even strips of their own clothing to dress wounds and staunch the bleeding. Both were merely students of medicine, but that still made them the most qualified out of all of them and Enjolras feared that their best would not be good enough to save many of their friends.

He walked down the line of men laid out against the back of the cafe. The dead wore grimaces of pain and anguish, far from the glory that they had envisioned in excited whispers at the cafe only nights before. His breath caught in his throat when he saw an all-too-familiar face half-turned into the pavement. Grantaire. In an instant he was kneeling beside his friend, turning his limp body towards the light of the gas lamp. "Grantaire, can you hear me? Hold on, Grantaire, please." Blood had blossomed from a bullet wound in his chest, and soaked not only Grantaire's shirt but the pavement around him as well. When his friend did not respond, he pressed his head to the motionless chest and his fears were confirmed; he was dead.

This could not be true. Grantaire, who had drunk himself into a stupor just the other night, Grantaire who had been one of the first to cry "Viva la revolucion!" after Enjolras made his speeches in their little room above the cafe. His oldest, most unruly friend, who had been the cause of so much frustration. Yet, despite his drinking and seemingly wavering dedication to their cause, it was Grantaire and not Enjolras on the pavement. It was Grantaire who had given his life so that Enjolras' dream might live another day. How often they had joked that he truly had a heart of stone, their leader. To see him now, they would have known this was not true; for at that moment, he knew he had never felt more pain in his life.

His heart felt dead within his chest and he found himself unable to move away from Grantaire's side. I must go to the barricades. Freedom will not wait for me to mourn my friends. He stood up slowly, feeling a thousand times heavier than he had before. When he reached the edge of the barricade, he found Marius cradling a boy in his arms. "Marius, what happened?" Enjolras leaned over and realized upon closer inspection, that it was not a boy at all; it was the gamine, Marius' shadow for the past few weeks.

"She stepped in front of the gun..." Marius seemed close to tears as he held the gamine, who was barely clinging to life. The bullet had passed through her hand and into her chest. She has no chance without a proper doctor, he realized.

"Marius, help me pick her up and take her to Joly." Together they carried her around the back of the building, where Joly stood surveying the tourniquet they had crafted for a boy who had taken no less than three bullets to the leg.

"Enjolras!" his eyes lit up at the sight of the leader of Les Amis. "Who is this?"

Marius spoke in a ragged voice, barely above a whisper. "Eponine. She saved my life."

Not wasting a second, Joly had them place her on the pavement and quickly examined her wounds. He made no attempt to hide his concern, and after binding her wounds with what remained of his shirt, Joly turned to Marius with a grim expression. "The bullet must be removed surgically, but I have neither the skills nor the equipment. Her only chance of surviving is if we could get her to a hospital."

Enjolras looked from Marius to the pale, slip of a girl dressed in a boy's clothing. She may have been a dirty, lovelorn fool... But try as he might, he could not deny the girl had been as brave as any of them - braver even, than most. If he sent them away from the barricades, was he not abandoning the cause they had fought so hard for? Yet, all he could think of was the line of his friends beside the cafe wall; cold and dead before their time. I will not see any more of my friends fall.

"Joly, ... Take her out of here. When you have seen her to safety, go home yourselves. You too, Marius."

A look of indignation passed over Combeferre's features. "You mean to give up?! After all this?" Joly reached his arm around his friend's shoulders and tried to hold him back from Enjolras.

"Grantaire, Gavroche, Jacques, Sonny... I have seen enough of our friends dead tonight; I will not see you as well. I will never renounce our cause, Combeferre, but we can do nothing more tonight."

"I - I suppose we'd best go, Combeferre," Joly was beginning to shiver; it was an uncommonly cold night for Paris, and he wore nothing but his trousers and a torn undershirt.

They embraced each other, for the unspoken fear they'd not meet again, and Enjolras watched as his friends carried the girl between them through the dark streets of Paris.

Eponine, he remembered. Her name was Eponine. Is.

Ah this is my first fanfic ever, so go easy.

I realize I don't focus much on it in this chapter, but there will definitely be lots of Eponine x Enjolras later on!

This was a bit short, but I should have a fairly long update for you guys later this week.

Please feed my ego and leave a review (plus constructive criticism would be lovely)