I've been going through this story, doing the usual editing. I know that the chapters are on the short side, but I feel like if I publish too much at once I'll overwhelm myself and eventually updates will become few and far apart. So, I have to keep to the shorter. As of right now, I have the first eight chapters all written out and will continue writing since I have so many ideas.

**UPDATED 1/3/15**


eleven

Enjolras immediately began yelling in panic, in rage, in sadness, in anger. He waited over a week to hear any news on his friends—he constantly pestered nurses and doctors, demanded information, but they constantly refused. And finally he was given the information he asked for.

They were dead.

Every last one of them.

Dead.

They had informed him that one was actually reported missing, but added that the soldier was as good as dead with that status. The doctor said that, with the state of the war, the missing one was already gone.

Enjolras kept denying it, saying they all could be missing, lost out there only hoping for help. But a Lieutenant had come by to give Enjolras the news—when Enjolras was found, so were the others. Some were already dead, and a couple were in critical condition. Enjolras couldn't be sure why, but he demanded that he know exactly what happened to each of them. He knew this would only cause him pain, but he had to know. He needed to know how each of them went out. Not only for himself, but for them, too.

Jehan was the man reported missing. Joly was the first to die. Then, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Grantaire and Marcus had almost made it—they were found alive, but just barely so and died on the trip to the hospital. It left Enjolras all alone.

He was completely alone now.

Tears flowed freely from his eyes—Enjolras cared about nothing else anymore. His family was gone now, he had every right to become a mess, to lose any and all of his sense that he spent years learning to control. And as he was reminded of how each of his friends was killed, he could recall exactly what had occurred, he remembered all that he saw, all that he felt, all that completely destroyed him inside.

Enjolras had nothing. His sadness turned to anger, his anger became aggression. He was having a fit that put everyone into a frenzy to stop him. He ignored the pain coursing through his body, only consumed by the overwhelming conflict of emotions inside of him. He had knocked everything from the table by his side, broke one of the machines attached to him, and he forced himself to stand before he fell to the ground. His full leg cast couldn't allow him to stand, and his still weak bones couldn't manage his weight. And when he crumpled upon the harsh, wooden floor once more his fit only continued—he kept yelling, crying, releasing his anger on whatever he could get his hands on.

But in a matter of minutes, he lost his energy, becoming weak to the point where tears took over entirely and he merely lied there in complete suffering, body shaking with sobs. The nurses and doctors gave him a few minutes before any approached him. But even then, once one knelt beside him, Enjolras yelled out—though weakly—and forced them away with the last of his strength.

Eventually, he calmed enough to allow help to get him back onto the rough cot, but his tears never subsided.

They were gone.

Each and every one of his friends. Nothing else mattered anymore.

He was going to continue on alone.

twelve

The air felt thick as they all remained silent. The greatest sound was their panting, but even that seemed too loud. Their location was unclear—they had lost their way. But they were close to safety. He knew.

"We have to be quick, but careful." Enjolras whispered as loudly as his dry mouth could manage, scaring a few of the men out of their daze, "We're still within enemy territory and we have to get out."

A nod of understanding was shared by the other six soldiers.

"Which way?" Joly asked as his eyes scanned the vast desert. Enjolras looked to Combeferre, the best at navigating.

"Keep west?" the Sergeant asked carefully, receiving a nod.

"Keep west." The other man confirmed. Enjolras motioned his head in the direction and slowly the men proceeded. They stayed hunched over, kept low enough down for an easy fall. Their weapons were at ready, prepared to fire at any given moment. Their movements were jerky, tense.

They were on the move for nearly ten minutes in silence. The sound of aircrafts were heard distantly as the sun began to set. A feeling of relief began to course through Enjolras.

And then it happened.

His relief came too soon.

There was suddenly a bomb. They should have been more prepared. And as it hit, as it blew them all off their feet, as it caused screams to erupt from throats, they all panicked.

Enjolras collided with the ground roughly, sand coating his eyes as he desperately tried to brush it away. He sat up, causing a grunt to escape him as pain shot up his side. His friends were yelling.

And another bomb hit.

More screams. More shouting.

More pain.

Enjolras finally felt panicked. He could force his roughed eyes open, but he couldn't understand what he was seeing. There were indistinguishable shouts, a mess of screams, the blur of moving bodies.

Then gun shots.

Almost automatically he forced himself to his knees, wincing at the movement while feeling around for his gun.

A shot to his ribs.

He fell painfully back to the ground as he heard fighting around him.

It had led to this.

Their demise.

thirteen

A letter arrived in the mail. It was unexpected, as the address on the outside was handwritten—Cosette almost never got envelopes with a handwritten address on the front. The handwriting was sloppy, yet still handsome in a heavy, rushed hand. It was handwriting Cosette knew all too well. She nearly broke down right there in front of her mailbox as she held it in her hand.

A letter from Marcus.

She scurried inside, tripping over the pavement and her own feet as she did so, and once she was finally in the door, she was on the floor and ripping open the envelope.

The letter was sent August 6th.

Just a week before he died.

His very last letter.

Could she bring herself to read it? Could she torture herself further with the knowledge that she held an unread letter in her hand that was the last of Marcus?

No.

No, she would never read it. How could she?

But she couldn't get rid of it. It was the last… anything she got from Marcus. She'd never throw it out. But she'd never read it.

The arrival of the letter caused Cosette to weep for hours.


On a final note, If anyone ever gets confused when I use the first names I've chosen for the Amis, please let me know. I won't use the names too often, but if I do and you lose track, I'm more than happy to add a list to my author's notes.