A/N: WW1 AU. (I'm trying something here…) Combeferre is one of the few survivors of the Battle of the Somme. Now plagued with gas blindness and a crushing sense of guilt at the deaths of his closest friends, he must try and work out how to pick up the pieces of his shattered life and start again.

Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying something new with Victor Hugo's amazing characters- please don't sue me!

The Road To Far Out East

'The one survivor? '

'Yes, sir. Brought in this morning. Gas blindness and shrapnel wounds to legs and lower abdomen….'

'Keep an eye on him Matron and keep him quiet. And look for his papers, if you can. I want to know exactly how many of our boys managed to get out of that hellhole alive…'

'Yes sir. Will that be all sir?'

'Such a waste… What? Yes Matron. Looks like a charming lad to me… Clever lad too… Take good care of him.'

'Yes sir.'

Combeferre struggles to stop himself from slipping back under into the blissful darkness of deep oblivion and yet the constant, gnawing pain that is slowly eating away at his broken body seems determined to overpower him as the soft, Welsh accent of the unknown Matron trails away into the body of the field hospital. Everything hurts. His head, his chest, his arms, his legs all seem to be ablaze with an invisible, unquenchable burning agony that seems to lick at his cheekbones and pool unwaveringly into his eyes. There is something covering his eyes. Something that does not hold the ice cold comfort of his battered spectacles, but something that feels oppressively like the warm, hard pressure of calloused skin forcing themselves over the blind brown orbs and try as he might; he can't seem to fight it off.

A sudden burst of panic catches him by the throat, as the warm, wet pressure seems to suffocate him, pressing its' silent, invisible fingers further and further into his eyes and he wants to scream, wants to throw whatever it is off his face but there is something caught between his teeth and he can't breathe, can't think, can't feel, can't see…

Hands on his shoulders. Firm, unknown hands gently pulling him upwards as he continues to struggle, barely even hearing the voice trying to explain to him what the matter was. He tries to shrug the voice away because he knows what the matter was. Knows it as clearly as he knows his own name because it is all his fault. They had been his men. His men and he had led them out into the living Hell that was No Man's Land like lemmings being led off a cliff and watched them fall. Through the chaos and the stink of gunfire, through the blasts of bullets and hail storm of shrapnel fire, through the rain and the screaming, pleading cries of the injured and the dying left to hang on the wire like marionettes whose strings had been cut he had watched them fall.

There is something on his mouth now. Something cold and feeling oddly metallic as a warm, peppery liquid slips slowly down his throat. The hands are still there, softly supporting his head as he tries to swallow but his throat won't work. It feels constricted, choked, blocked with the dead and dying bodies of his companions; led off to war like lambs to the slaughterhouse.

Bahorel. Bossuet. Courfeyrac. Enjolras. Feuilly. Grantaire. Jehan. Joly. His men. His followers. And yet they had been more than that. They had been brothers, lovers; a multi-limbed, often dysfunctional family united by their love for a common cause now left to rot at the mercy of the German guns. Such a waste. Such a bitterly tragic waste of lives that had been filled with such bright, blazing potential. And yet the guns didn't care about that. They didn't care, didn't even see, didn't even think to look at what they were felling...

A dry, choked sob cuts through his throat as he remembers Joly and Bossuet the night before they had gone over the top. Remembers Joly's dark eyes the colour of autumn leaves sparkling with hope as he lifted a cigarette to his mouth as he watched Bossuet dig out a faded photograph of their shared sweetheart back home from his pocket; the paper soft and crinkled from much thumbing, the lines of the pleated skirt swirling over the bicycle faded with age. Combeferre had never thought to ask the two privates from deepest Devon what her name was.

Sees once more Grantaire playing dominoes with Bahorel and Feuilly watching on; their booming laughter echoing heartily off the mud walls of the dugout as they were watched by a silently smoking Jehan, lounging nonchalantly against the doorframe; the mane of auburn that he had stubbornly refused to cut falling gracefully into his eyes. He sees Jehan's fingers; long, slender, dexterous digits stained with splashes of ink, a leaking pen tucked behind his ear, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He had been the youngest of their ragtag band of brothers he remembers with a pang as Jehan's memory begins to fade. A child of little more than sixteen who had lied about his age in order to die for the glory of his beloved country. Even in his barely conscious state, it feels odd to be even thinking about the poet in the past tense.

His mind flicks on despite itself; scanning the dugout for the two he has left out. The two whom he cherishes, cherished above all the others. Enjolras sitting at his desk, a pen between his teeth; glacial blue orbs ablaze with passion even at rest; flicking every so often up to scan his friends and then back down to the map on the rough trestle table. He remembers a slight smile tugging at his best friends lips, crinkling up through the shards of wide, glacial glass as the gaze had flicked itself over to Courfeyrac; the living, laughing, loving centre of their group. Courfeyrac whom he had last seen whistling 'Jerusalem' with a silent, tight faced smile as they readied their bayonets against the mud wall of the trench. Remembers without warning a dishevelled crown of ebony curls stinking of smoke and gunpowder as he had leant back against the chair and bent his head into the chipped porcelain bowl and sighed in contentment as Combeferre massaged his scalp; carding out the mud and dirt that clung to him. Remembers…

The sensation of hands on his shoulders, slowly lowering him back onto the itchy cotton of the hospital cot; a soft stream of unintelligible sweet nothings which mean absolutely nothing to him cut short by a sudden, unwanted sob cracking through his lips as he desperately tries to rise again.

'Rest now. We'll soon get you better, don't worry about it. You've done well.' But he doesn't want to get better. He doesn't want to get better, get back to what he came out here to do, in the knowledge that under his orders he sent eight bravely passionate, beautiful souls who he was so lucky to call 'brothers' to their deaths. Doesn't want to think about the letters he will have to write to the waiting mothers, families, lovers as their Commanding Officer; the words that will trip from his pen; words that speak of glory, life and liberty even though he knows that they are all just propagandist lies for the benefit of the hopeful families back in far off, sun kissed England.

Another sudden, desperate sob rises to his lips as without warning he feels the sudden, salty sharpness of unwanted tears pricking painfully at the back of his eyelids. He lets the tears fall; relishing in the silent, icy fire as it cascades down his cheeks; burning what could be feeling back into icy skin. He doesn't want to feel now. He doesn't want to think now or feel now and yet he knows he must. Knows that he must keep going, keep living, keep breathing; if not for his own sake, for his family's sake but for their sake. For their memories, their hopes, their lives, their dreams that he knows that he must continue.

'Don't forget us 'Ferre,' Courfeyrac's voice seems to echo through his head; the words brimming over with a silent, never ceasing compassion as a slight, pain filled smile tugs itself across his lips.

'We won't forget you Mon Ami, promise.' The smile seems to widen despite itself, despite everything, breaking past the pain and the memories that continue to haunt him and will continue to haunt him for the rest of his days.

'I won't', he mouths into the thick, humidly oppressive air, not caring who hears him, not even caring if he is heard at all as the thick, dark blanket of senseless oblivion slowly claims him once again.

'I promise I won't. You will always be in my heart Mes Amis, wherever you are, I promise. I will remember you always, don't forget that. Please don't forget that. Godspeed my brothers.'

Fin

A/N: Please feel free to read and review! This is just an experiment into something and I don't know if I'll write any more of it, but we shall see! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!

Much love and enjoy x

Note on text

Title taken from Ramin Karimloo's new EP 'The Road To Find Out: East' which I originally read as 'The Road To Far Out East'