His legs were shaking as Enjolras vacated the café and left Joly operate on Eponine. He slumped against the wall of the café and took a series of deep breaths in an effort to pull himself together before he had to face his friends again. Courfeyrac's cry from atop the barricade forced him to move with dismay toward the edge of their enclosure as he recalled the previously advancing army.

"A man in army uniform is approaching!" Courfeyrac yelled as the men crowded up to the top of the barricade to observe what was happening. Courfeyrac turned toward Enjolras and he could see his friend's eyebrows raised in question as to what they should do. Enjolras waved his hand in a gesture to show they should let the man inside if that was what he wished.

As the man slipped past the barricade and inside, ten of the men surrounded him immediately, guns raised and at the ready.

"What brings you here?" Combeferre asked the man, calmly, from outside the circle of guns.

"I have come to volunteer my services to your cause," the man replied and the schoolboys looked at each other uneasily, all recalling the spy Javert's similar offer of assistance.

"Why then, do you wear an army uniform?" one of the boys asks him warily.

"I donned this jacket to be able to be allowed through and past the National Guard."

Combeferre, nods in an understanding manner and continues, "You are rather advance in your year's monsieur—are you sure you want to risk your life helping us?"

The man dipped his head briefly before assuring him, "That's why I want to help—I am old and have lived my life—you boys have not. And it appears that you need all the help you can get," he finished looking around the barricade where only a couple dozen men stood about.

Bahorel began filling the man in on the fact that their ranks had already been infiltrated once, "The spy calls himself Javert," Enjolras thought for a moment that the man's eyes grew wide and his eyebrows rose briefly at the mention of the spy's name, but it was fleeting, before his expression was blank again, "We will most likely have to execute him for his treachery. The same fate awaits you if you are lying to us."

At that moment, Courfeyrac yelled, "They're getting ready to attack!" from the apex of the barricade and everyone sprang into action.

Enjolras handed a gun to the volunteer and softly told him, "Take this and use it well," before adding to Bahorel's warning, "If you shoot us in the back you await the same fate as the spy." The man nodded in understanding, took the gun, and scrambled up the barricade rather agilely for someone of his age.

All the school boys were looking toward the amassed National Guard standing only a couple hundred feet away. Combeferre continued hastily handing out guns and everyone was bracing for the coming onslaught of gun fire. Enjolras grimly accepted a gun and climbed to the top of the barricade to join Courfeyrac.

The sun was setting over the buildings perpendicular to the barricade, Enjolras noted bleakly, day coming to an end, just as men's lives would come to an end shortly—all he could do was hope it was none of his friends for whom that sun set. He grasped Courfeyrac's hand and then turned to the other men who were moving up the rickety wooden structure, "Everyone ready?" he solemnly asked.

Enjolras' inquiry was greeted by dour nods as the men poked their heads over the top of the fortress and surveyed the guardsmen who were getting ready to shot. He positioned himself next to the red flag that flew proudly sticking out of a pair of interlocking chairs and prepared for battle. Enjolras raised his gun and aimed it toward the throng of their countrymen who were preparing to gun down a couple dozen schoolboys. Fire ran through his veins as he kept the image of Eponine, who had so unjustly been shot, as well as countless others like her who were kept downtrodden by the unfairness of their society and government, in his mind. He steadied his gun and knew that, although killing and deaths were regrettable, they were unavoidable—France could not keep on going the way it had, but nothing was going to change unless people like them took action. Sure of the justice of their mission, Enjolras called out, "Aim, FIRE," just before the same command was shouted from down the cobblestoned street.

The world became ablaze with sparks of gun fire and cries of injured men. Enjolras threw all of his attention at the advancing figures coming down the street—he could not let his mind wander to think of who was crying out in agony. Enjolras could barely breathe for the smoke that began to thicken in the air as the fighting continued. He had reloaded his gun several times and realized that his stock of ammunition was running low, when someone pressed a fully loaded gun into his hand. Enjolras seized it and continued firing.

He felt the impact of a body fall to the barricade beside him and he winced as he let himself go through in his head where all of his friends' had been positioned when the firing began. In that split second of speculation, a bullet came whizzing past his head, renewing his focus and panic began welling up in his throat.

The National Guard got too close for Enjolras' peace of mind. His targets were closer and he could see the men his bullets struck down as he fired more furiously in a whirlwind of adrenaline. The guardsmen were so close now that some reached out and touched the barricade, ready to climb it. Others aimed their guns up at the schoolboys hovering over them, as angels of a lost cause.

When it seemed that the boys surely only had moments left before the barricade was stormed, Enjolras, out of the corner of his eye, saw the nameless volunteer take out the man leading the troupe of guardsmen. As he fell, all the guardsmen seemed to collectively pause—Enjolras and the rest of his friends used their hesitation as an opportunity to gain the advantage and they had their opponents retreating within minutes, dragging along their dead and wounded as they ran.

As the smoke cleared a cheer went up around the barricade and someone shouted, "Look how they turn and run away like cowards!" Enjolras allowed himself a brief smile, happy that it looked like the majority of them had survived this skirmish unscathed, but he knew the fighting was far from over.

The cheering died down and many of the men turned to face Enjolras. He looked into their expectant and excited faces and his heart sank as he informed them, "They will be back, it's not yet over." His comment made the men's expressions turn bleaker. He turned to the volunteer to thank him, "Thank you Monsieur. It is because of you that we came out of that encounter mostly whole."

The man pursed his lips, looking like he was about to offer a smile, but the gesture never materialized and never touched his eyes, which were hard and could almost be described as haggard, if the man had not been so clean cut. Enjolras momentarily wondered what this man's story was, but he did not want to pry and was not given the chance to dwell on the thought as the man replied, "I need no thanks, but I wonder if I might press you for a favor?"

"Certainly," Enjolras told him.

The man looked unsure for a moment, but persisted in his inquiry, "Let me take care of the spy—I do not want to see any of you young men have the stain of execution on your hands."

Enjolras was cautious, recalling the man's fleeting surprise when he had heard the spy's name, but truthfully, Enjolras was dreading the idea of having to execute the spy. He considered for a moment that this volunteer was the reason most of his friends were still alive—he had proved himself by fighting at their sides against the National Guard. So Enjolras acquiesced and told the man where to find the spy.

He disappeared and a couple minutes later, Enjolras heard a gunshot go off in the alleys—he had to forcibly keep himself from wincing at the thought of another life gone. But he had more pressing matters to deal with.

Surveying the enclosed space, Enjolras saw where the wounded were sitting waiting for Joly to attend to them. They were lucky—no one on their side had been killed, only injured. As he thought of Joly, Enjolras became panicked as his thoughts strayed to Eponine. He quickly strode to the door of the café and right into the medical student.

Reaching out an arm to steady his friend, Enjolras looked at him with an anxious expression and had to clear his throat several times before he could speak, "Is Epon-.., is Ep-.., is she going to be all right?" he finally was able to ask shakily.

When Joly nodded his head, Enjolras felt relief come crashing down on him so intensely he almost missed what Joly had to say about Eponine's condition, "She's lost a lot of blood, but the bullet is out and the wound is stitched up now. Her breathing appears fine, but she is unconscious, partly from the pain and partly from the alcohol I gave her to numb the pain. Hopefully she'll wake up in an hour or so. And lucky for her, she passed out right as I started to operate, so she did not feel the worse of it," Joly grimaced as he finished briefing Enjolras, "Now I have to go see to our friends," he said and gestured toward where Prouvaire and Bossuet sat and lay respectively, clutching cloths to arm and leg wounds to stop the bleeding. Prouvaire appeared to just have been scrapped by a bullet on his arm. Bossuet was not quite so lucky and had a bullet lodged in the side of his arm. Enjolras waited long enough to see Joly attending to Bossuet first, before he ducked into the café.

He was greeted by the sight of Grantaire sitting by a motionless Eponine, who was sprawled out on the same table as earlier. Her skin was now white from loss of blood—it made a stark contrast to the dirt that still smudge her skin. She looked so breakable. Seeing her so white faced and fragile looking made Enjolras feel nauseous, but he trusted Joly's diagnosis and did not dwell on how she currently looked. As he moved to her side, Grantaire noticed his approach and vacated his spot by Eponine.

Enjolras sank down into the chair and took the hand Grantaire had been holding. He stroked the back of her hand lightly with his thumb and tenderly rubbed at smudges of dirt on her face, which did nothing but smear the dirt around. He had to bite his lip and swallow hard to keep his emotions in check. She's going to be fine, he repeated to himself several times as he took note of the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Enjolras looked down at her bandaged and bloody leg and grimaced. He hoped the wound would not affect her ability to walk—Eponine would hate being incapacitated.

He turned to where Grantaire was awkwardly perched on the table behind him and thanked him for helping with Eponine. The other man just bobbed his head as if to say "Of course" and reached out to squeeze Enjolras' shoulder, before he exited the room to give Enjolras a moment alone with Eponine.

He sighed and leaned up to kiss Eponine's forehead as he whispered, "I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess. You should never have been shot," his voice cracked and he had to stop speaking or he knew the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes would spill over. Eponine was all right and safe—for now, but Enjolras wondered how long that would last. He hoped she would wake up before the fighting resumed so that he could see her and hold her in his arms one last time. Enjolras knew he could not spend much time in the café with the injured girl; he knew he was needed outside trying to rally the troops.

Regretfully, he stood and after running his hand down Eponine's cheek once more, he walked outside, where he found Grantaire leaning up against the door frame of the café. Seeing him, he almost blushed, hoping his friend had not heard how emotional he got with Eponine—showing such emotion was unusual for him and he did not want it adversely affecting their fight.

"Grantaire," he said softly as the drunk turned to look at him, "please stay with Eponine if you don't mind?"

Grantaire briskly replied, "Of course mon ami. I will look out for her during your revolution." He smirked and disappeared inside the café.

Relieved that someone would be with Eponine when she woke up, even if it could not be him, Enjolras moved to go join his friends who were all pulling out liquor they had stored around the barricade. Enjolras rolled his eyes at his friends' love for the intoxicating beverage, but the eye roll did not contain the same irritation as it usually did. He did not want to begrudge his friends one last night of merriment.

Enjolras realized it was past dusk and he highly doubted the National Guard would attack again before the sun rose, so he allowed himself to relax against the café wall and take a few moments to collect his thoughts and emotions. He had his head bowed until he heard someone banging into something in the alleyway. Looking up, Enjolras spotted the blond haired thief who had tried to accost Eponine several days ago. The main was peering into the enclosure and studying his friends as they sat around drinking. Enjolras did not want such vermin attached to his revolutionary efforts. They fought for the poor, but those who murdered ruthlessly were another matter. "Hey!" he shouted and the man's head whipped in Enjolras' direction. Enjolras stepped toward the man to stop him or talk to him, Enjolras was not quite sure what he intended to do, but before he could take two steps, the thief had disappeared into the growing night.