As Enjolras' spirit left him the red flecked paving stones of Paris began to melt away, revealing marble stones in their place. The barricade dissolved into nothing and behind it, instead of smog, brilliant white light filled the sky. The Musain peeled back its soot stained walls to reveal walls of white marble. It was Paris but not as it was when the barricades rose and fell. It was the Paris so many young and old revolutionaries had dreamt of. Clean, beautiful and free.

Enjolras opened his eyes he had not moved but all was white and a strange, comforting light shone around him. His eight bullet wounds were gone and his skin shone golden bronze like Apollo the sun god's. Voices drifted over to him; there was Courfeyrac's infectious laugh, Grantaire's incredulous snort, Jean Prouvaire's beautiful lilt, the sound of Feuilly's fans opening and closing, Combeferre's deep voice, Joly's chastising, Bahorel's giggle and Laigle's chatter. All the sounds he knew and loved. There were also the two voices of a boy and a young woman- familiar but not recognisable to Enjolras. The pair were singing;

'À la volonté du peuple dont on n'étouffe jamais la voix
Et dont le chant renaît toujours et dont le chant renaît déjà
Nous voulons que la lumière déchire le masque de la nuit
Pour illuminer notre terre et changer la vie'

Suddenly Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Combeferre, Joly, Feuilly, Prouvaire, Bahorel, Laigle and thousands of others joined in too;

'Il viendra le jour glorieux où dans sa marche vers l'idéal
L'homme ira vers le progrès du mal au bien du faux au vrai
Un rêve peut mourir mais on n'enterre jamais l'avenir

Joignez-vous à la croisade de ceux qui croient au genre humain
Pour une seule barricade qui tombe cent autres se lèveront demain
À la volonté du peuple un tambour chante dans le lointain
Il vient annoncer le grand jour et c'est pour demain'

Enjolras slowly got to his feet and joined the chain the people had made which wound around and over the Seine and its many bridges. He placed himself between the two original singers, the boy, Gavroche and Marius' shadow, Éponine- it was amazing how different they both sounded without the stain of gin and the streets husking their words. Enjolras, copying the rest of the crowd, looked down into the Seine and opened his mouth to join the chorus.

'Joignez-vous à la croisade de ceux qui croient au genre humain
Pour une seule barricade qui tombe cent autres se lèveront demain
À la volonté du peuple un tambour chante dans le lointain
Il vient annoncer le grand jour et c'est pour demain

C'EST POUR DEMAIN!'

The Seine, for those of you who have never visited Paris, is usually a vile brown colour and smells no better than it looks- in this place the Seine was not a river but a flowing window into the Paris you and I know. At this particular moment, through that window, an old man could be seen his arm linked with that of his wife. He carried a walking stick in one hand and a large red, bullet ridden flag in the other. He and his wife both wore tricolore cockades and huge, beaming smiles. Behind this strange duo marched thousands upon thousands of men, women and children all cheering wildly and shouting VIVE LA FRANCE! VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE! The year was 1848. The monarchy had fallen. The king had fled. The people were free.

Back in that strange, perfect Paris, where the millions who had died fighting for this day now were, tears fell. Strangers hugged. Amid the chaos of happiness Enjolras stood, frozen, unable to comprehend that he had died and awoken to this- for time runs very differently in heaven. He looked around him at all the happy faces, the grime free gamines shouting and whooping, the benevolent bourgeoisie, the students who never passed their degrees, and for the first time since he had begun fighting for Paris… Enjolras smiled.