He woke very suddenly but was only vaguely aware of it. He could feel his breathing and it hurt, like each of his ribs had been bruised to breaking point. He was awarebof his own heartbeat and that terrified him because there was no way he'd got out of that alive.

"Where are they?" He tried to say, but his throat was hoarse and he nearly choked. There was a noise beside him and some liquid was pressed to his lips. He sipped and remembered, blinking at the light of the room. "Where is he?"

"Don't talk," A rough but kind voice said, making him jump. He did not know this man. "You've had a blow to the head. I wasn't sure you'd ever wake up. They're all okay and you mustn't think about them - only of yourself and of getting better."

"Who are you?" He croaked, taking the beaker himself and sipping at the weak wine. He could see the man now - old, with snow hair and lined skin.

"A - A volunteer," He muttered, getting to his feet. Enjolras realised now that he was in a bed in a tiny room. "Rest. Someone will check on you soon but you must get better."

"Wait, Monsieur!" He tried to sit up. He had to know. "When you say they -"

"I mean your friends."

"And - and you do mean all?"

The volunteer sighed and tapped his fingers against the door frame. "I do. I will explain when you are well - for now, rest." And, with that, he left.

Enjolras had never been very good at doing what he was told.

He sipped away the rest of the wine, hating what it made him think of but needing it if he was going to work out what had happened and where he was. He made himself sit and fought against the dizziness until it passed.

What had happened? He had to think very carefully through the pounding fog filling his head. They had been at the barricade -

His own words echoed back to him and he felt the first wave of panic crashing onto him. They'd been abandoned. He'd told them all to go -

Jean Prouvaire was dead.

His shoulders dropped and he felt the breath abandon his chest. That gentle man had died for a cause which he himself could not.

The volunteer had lied. Not all of his friends lived.

He thought past the first grief to the events following Jean Prouvaire's execution. The man Marius had proved to be useful and passionate about something other than his own life - he, too, was probably dead.

How would he volunteer have known which of the men at the barricade were his friends? He could not feel bitterness towards the old man - he'd filled him with hopeless hope but hadn't known at the time. When he came back, Enjolras would have to explain the situation to him. Make him describe each of the survivors or, even better, take him to them.

He was quite sure he'd seen Combeferre killed or, even worse, captured. They had all been so spread apart it was impossible to see details - and his memory was hazy and kept confusing faces.

The beaker was drained but he searched for more wine anyway. His throat felt as if someone had taken a knife to it.

He remembered seeing Joly and Bossuet but, again, had no idea whether they'd been alive or dead.

He had to find out.

Carefully, he threw his legs from the bed and pushed himself so he was standing. The room span but he took several deep breaths and found enough strength to guide himself from the room, leaning heavily against the wall.

He was in a church or monastery. He could hear the distant sounds of mass and bells and frowned, wondering what they possibly could be praying for. The swift recovery of his friends - if any of them did indeed still live? He couldn't imagine this being likely.

He crept down a corridor past many rooms like his own. After opening the first few and finding them completely empty he lost hope of miraculously finding his friends there and headed straight for outdoors - away from the sounds of life.

Footsteps behind him.

"En - Enjolras?'

A familiar and impossible voice. Enjolras span, making himself dizzy.

There, rather pale and with bruises across his face but, otherwise alive, stood Jean Prouvaire.

"A ghost,"Enjolras mused out loud, stumbling towards the man. He was grinning.

"Not dead," He said softly, holding out his hands. Uncharacteristically, Enjolras took them. "Enjolras, you should be in bed."

He shook his head and regretted it. "Who - where is everyone?"

Jean Prouvaire frowned. "Come and sit down, at least."

"I can not rest. I need to know what's happened, Prouvaire."

"Fine," He sighed, supporting his friend and guiding him in the direction he'd already been heading. "I'll tell you as we walk but please, take it easy. What did Valjean tell you?"

"Who?"

"Valjean - Cosette's Papa."

"Who's Cosette?"

Jean Prouvaire sighed. "Oh, Enjolras. Marius's bien-aimé – his amoureux."

He thought carefully. "The girl?"

"Yes, Enjolras."

"What has she to do with anything?"

He sighed again. "Her papa came to find Marius to take him from the barricade to marry Cosette. It's thanks to him that we all live."

"All?"

"All, Enjolras."

He swallowed around something and felt the world swim. It was impossible. There had been so much blood – so much gun smoke.

"Tell me, Prouvaire," he said weakly, still walking at a painfully slow pace. He realised that he was leaning heavily on his friend but still refused to return to his room.

"First, the man rescued me. They were to execute me for being with you but he fought for my life and freed me. I told him that we had to go back and save you all – you couldn't die thinking I was dead and I couldn't live knowing you'd died thinking I was dead. So we doubled back and he joined you as a volunteer –"

"I remember."

"He sent me away. I told him to take everyone – to save you all. He promised to do his best. I knew his priority was Marius – I told him any life saved on top of that would be a blessing. He secretly rallied everyone who looked big enough to drag you away and, when it looked like you were all about to die, smuggled you away from the barricade."

"I saw – I thought I saw Joly –"

"Shot. They've fixed him mostly, though."

"Bossuet?"

"Shot but the shrapnel got him worse. He will recover."

"Combeferre?"

"Shot. He may yet lose a leg."

"What?"

"If it – the wound – becomes dangerous to him."

Enjolras was grey and stopped walking to lean against a wall. "Courfeyrac?"

"Fine. Knocked out, but fine."

"Where is he?"

"With Combeferre."

"Of course."

"Feuilly, Bahorel and Marius are all recovering slowly. They were injured the worst."

Enjolras nodded and asked what he'd barely dared to think about. "And Grantaire?"

Jean Prouvaire, fond of the drunk, answered as favourably as he could. "Avoided the bloodshed – in the most part. He was the last to be taken away."

"How so?"

"He was asleep, you remember? But he blundered into the National Guard – thought we were all dead. Told them he was one of us."

"The fool."

"He thought to die with us."

"He thought to let us die and chase after us."

"Enjolras – "

"So, they killed him?"

Jean Prouvaire hesitated. "They would have. You remember Eponine?"

"Who?"

"The – Marius's friend who died on the barricade."

"The lad?"

"… Yes. Her friend, a terrifying brute called Montparnasse, saw Grantaire and recognised him. He freed him."

"Where is he now?"

"Grantaire or Montparnasse?"

"Grantaire."

"I don't know. They brought him here for a moment. Told him we were all alive. He – he left."

"Did he say anything?"

Jean Prouvaire was not comfortable with this. "Only – only that he'd said so and that he hoped we'd find something else to fight for. And then he left."

Enjolras frowned and found that he could support himself again. "You don't know where?"

"I could guess."

"Then guess."

"The Musain."

"Then that is where I shall go," Enjolras muttered, raising his hand to gingerly touch the bandage across his brow. "Prouvaire, tell them that I am grateful. I will be back at some point – I hope Combeferre's leg is good. I'll be back soon."

"You're going to find him?"

"I do not understand him."

"No one understands him, Enjolras – "

"I must try. Thank you for your friendship, Prouvaire," he took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before dropping it, as if only just realising that it was burning his skin. "Your life is a gift to me."

"Enjolras, you really should rest – "

"Later." He waved over his shoulder and left, walking as quickly and boldly as his body could manage. Jean Prouvaire watched him go, sighed, and turned to walk in the opposite direction. He knew better than to try to reason with the young man in red.