Notes: Dear readers, your support means the world to me, and I tried to handle this chapter as best as I could. I hope that we will still be friends.

Chapter Eleven

Into the Night

Their coffeemaker was lying atop a heap of rubbish in the dumpster outside the Musain, so Joly steeped a pot of his beloved Echinacea tea and poured cups for Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and Éponine. Jehan had left for work, and it was time for the night shift, but the chances of anyone surfacing from Dis at this point were slim enough to afford the Templars the luxury of dawdling. The four of them were gathered around the coffee table pretending to watch Estelle et Némorin, although the volume was turned down so low it was almost inaudible.

Finally, Bossuet asked, "Do you think it's started?"

Courfeyrac checked his wristwatch. "It's morning down under, so probably, yeah. State funerals are always held at dawn, aren't they?"

"If there was a funeral in the first place," said Éponine. "Lamarque isn't exactly the sovereigns' favorite person."

They fell into silence, each one contemplating the many ways the plan could have gone wrong if the cremation hadn't occurred- and the many ways it could have gone wrong, anyway.

"So!" Joly said brightly, looking around. "Where are the Metatron? Have they gone back to the Silver City?"

"No, and that was weird," Éponine replied with a frown. "They were supposed to be recalled today, but they said they had to tie up loose ends. They left the base a few hours ago after asking me about Montparnasse- where he usually hung out, stuff like that."

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "Are they still looking into the drug syndicates? How..." He shot Bossuet and Joly a conspiratorial glance. "How very diligent."

The two other boys burst into laughter. Éponine blinked at them in confusion. "What am I missing?"

"N- nothing!" Bossuet squeaked. He then pantomimed writing something down, with his eyes crossed and his tongue poking out the side of his lips, holding an imaginary sheet of paper almost to his nose, an expression of comical earnestness on his features. It took Éponine a few seconds to realize he was imitating Marius.

"You assholes!" she exclaimed as Courfeyrac and Joly doubled over, clutching stomachs that ached from mirth.

"Look at me, I'm an angel," said Bossuet in an unnaturally deep yet breathless voice, which made Courfeyrac and Joly howl even louder, wiping tears from their eyes. "I write things. I make notes. Fear my feather quill!"

Éponine glared at them, crossing her arms. "Not funny."

"Yeah, yeah, you're moony for the Metatron, we know," said Courfeyrac dismissively. "But, Ep, you have to admit, he's kind of a dork."

"Plus I think he's got a thing for his partner," Bossuet added. "Not that I wouldn't- she's gorgeous."

"Shut up," Éponine muttered, a sour taste in her mouth.

Joly stopped laughing. Even after all this time, he was still the one who knew her best. He sent her a small, apologetic smile, and this sudden solemnity was eventually picked up on by the other boys. The hilarity faded away, leaving only another tense silence.

Onscreen, Estelle, Némorin, and their friends were sunning themselves on a beach. It was one of those filler episodes that everybody hated but the network continued producing.

"Feuilly adored this show," Joly remarked to Éponine.

She snorted. "Tell me about it. He came over to watch it all the time, because he and Bahorel didn't have cable at their place."

"And if you guys were out, he'd mosey over to my apartment," said Joly. "He knew the plotlines better than I did."

Bossuet smirked. "I find that hard to believe." Courfeyrac fervently nodded in agreement.

They don't know, Éponine thought almost wistfully. They don't know how deeply Feuilly studied the things he cared about. How Bahorel loved scooping Azelma into his arms and spinning her around. How Combeferre went to the docks everyday just to look at the ocean. How Grantaire hummed cheesy songs under his breath when he thought no one could hear.

Joly nudged her knee with his, and the line of her mouth softened with gratitude for this tiny act of sympathy and comfort. A look of understanding passed between them. They were our friends. No matter what happened afterwards, they were our friends and that has to count for something. And now they could be dead or dying beneath our feet, for all we know.

"You think they're going to be okay?" Bossuet asked. "I mean, Lamarque died too soon. We didn't have enough time to train them, to plan out the attack as well as we could have-"

"Not everyone has your rotten luck, my friend," Courfeyrac reminded him teasingly. And then he continued, in a graver tone, "We did what we could, and now it's up to them. They have power and allies and weapons. That's all right, isn't it?"

"They'll be fine," agreed Joly, ever the optimist in all matters except the ones concerning his health. "Even if they weren't that ready."

Éponine knew what he meant, and she was pretty sure Bossuet and Courfeyrac did, too. They'd been all nerves on their respective first exorcisms, movements uncertain and palms slick with sweat. Their bodies carried scars and memories of bruise and fracture. They were better at it now, but, looking back on the immediate aftermath of the war, they were once only kids with a bone to pick, raring yet unready.

But there were some things that had to be done. Sometimes you just had to go in like you'd been preparing your whole life.

Ninurta was dead, battered to a pulp by the war hammers of the Greed legion. Azazel and Enjolras had left his body behind as they and their remaining troops marched on to the capitol district, over which towered the spiked turrets of the Shrieking Castle, Lucifer's fortress.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Enjolras was aware that there were fewer of them than he'd hoped for. Quite a lot of the Untitled had taken one look at the Nightmare Child and flown back to the slums, crying out in fear, and Ishtar, furious about her losses, was at the top of her game, decimating an entire Resistance platoon in one burst of hellfire. But, as per the plan, the revolutionaries had scattered all over Dis, so that the forces under Enjolras and Azazel's command would only have Greed and Vainglory to contend with when they stormed the capitol district.

"How were they able to wake Nightmare in time?" Enjolras demanded.

Azazel shrugged, a thin line of ichor dripping down his temple, and more ichor staining the makeshift bandages wrapped around his stomach. "Nemesis knew. She always knows, in the end. Inescapable."

Enjolras fought back a shudder. He desperately hoped Combeferre and Grantaire were all right and holding their own against Envy and the Furies.

"Incoming!" someone screamed, and Enjolras looked up to see a swarm of cannonballs blotting out the sky, bearing down upon them like rain.

"Raise the shields!" he shouted, and Vainglory artillery met Vainglory ice, the air exploding in swirls of smoke and frost. Brother fighting against brother- the sacrifice on which his new world would be built.

A small dark shape swooped into the midst of the chaos, resting on Enjolras' shoulder. "Message from the Waste Lands," croaked the imp. "They've taken down what was left of Wrath, but they're still battling the Nightmare Child. Lilith believes the others more than capable, so she's leaving them. She's on her way to you."

"Tell her to stay there!" Enjolras snapped. "Nightmare is not to be underestimated!"

Azazel spoke up. "We need Lilith, my Prince."

"But-" My friends are there. Don't let them die.

Sacrifice.

Before Enjolras could come to a decision, another barrage of cannonballs rose up from the ranks of the Morningstar's loyalists. The Resistance demons tried to conjure their walls of ice again, but most were low-ranking in the hierarchy and thus not as powerful over the element of frost. The first round had sapped their strength; ice melted as soon as it appeared.

However, before the cannonballs could make contact, they were devoured by streams of red-gold flame that abruptly lashed through the air, in the shape of serpentine dragon-heads. The heat skimmed over Enjolras' upturned face, and Azazel smiled as a slender winged figure floated to the ground in front of them, smoke trailing from her dark fingers, golden eyes gleaming. There was only one demon in all of Dis who shaped her hellfire like that, who wielded it like whips. Lilith, Lady Air, Marchioness of Gluttony, and harbinger of plague.

"Good job with the holy water," she told Enjolras. "Wrath never knew what hit them." Her dragon-fire reared up all around them in a protective circle, snapping and hissing. With a lazy flick of her wrist, she sent one careening into a nearby enemy squad. "But this is all that's left of you?" she asked over the screams and sobs, frowning at Enjolras and Azazel's troops.

"No need to sound so smug," Azazel drawled.

"I'm not being smug. The Nightmare Child is wounded and faltering now, but it wiped out more than half of us. Where are the people?"

"The chains sink deep, my lady," murmured the imp on Enjolras' shoulder. "Limbo dampens the spirit."

"That will be all," Enjolras tersely admonished. "Take a message to Combeferre. Tell him I'm almost at the capitol; he has to keep the Furies away from it. Is that clear?"

The imp nodded and flew off. Enjolras turned to Lilith. "Your orders were to stay in the Waste Lands."

"Oh, like you didn't need my help?" she retorted.

"Feuilly and Bahorel-"

"Will do what they must," Lilith interrupted. "Your objective right now is the Morningstar. Where is he?"

"Cowering in his castle," Azazel replied.

The dragons burned brighter, mimicking the glow in Lilith's eyes. "Well, then, let's go get him."

"This fucking thing!" Bahorel yelled as another slap from the Nightmare Child's tentacles shook the earth, driving him back, his feet skidding on the ground and stopping a few paces short of Feuilly. "Why won't it die?"

Their battalion had at last successfully lured the monster from the Shrieking Castle, leaving the way clear for Enjolras and the generals to begin their siege. Now they were hashing it out on the parched plains of the Waste Lands, with corpses sprawled all around them and the outline of distant mountains shimmering in the red heat.

"We have to end this!" Feuilly cried over the Nightmare Child's harsh, grating screams. "We can't afford to lose any more men!"

"You think I don't know that?" Bahorel growled.

"Well, damn, sorry-"

The Nightmare Child lumbered towards them, oozing ichor and shadows, its black mantle flashing with tinges of green under the sun's rays, its enormous form filling the world with darkness and the smell of carrion. Demons pelted it with fireballs from all sides, but it simply waded through the flames, unperturbed.

Feuilly aimed his gun at it and fired off several rounds, causing it to stagger as the holy water in the bullets seared its flesh. It wailed again, even louder and shriller than before, and Feuilly swore his eardrums had popped. "How is it even doing that? Where's its mouth?"

"Now is no time to be acting like Combeferre," said Bahorel, hurling a grenade which exploded against the beast's underside. It reared back just as a demon swooped in close, only to be grabbed midflight by one huge tentacle. Feuilly and Bahorel watched in horror as their hapless comrade was swallowed by a hole that had opened somewhere in the mantle, rimmed with hundreds of sharp teeth.

"So that's where the mouth is," Feuilly mused, almost to himself, but he was soon distracted by the grin that had started to blossom on Bahorel's face.

That grin was never a good sign.

"Um, what are you doing?" Feuilly asked as Bahorel retrieved more grenades from the cache and shoved them into his coat pockets.

"My dear," said Bahorel, "I go to glory."

And he ran straight into the arms of nightmare, Bahorel of the Lust legion, almost a lord, always a roar, always larger than life. The tentacles snatched him up. The mouth opened wide.

In the midnight gloom of Templar headquarters, Éponine tossed and turned in her bunk, her mind ridden with worry. Gillenormand had growled over the phone that she'd already missed too many shifts, and she was in danger of getting fired if she didn't come in next week.

The truth was, Éponine could hardly care about her job right now, but it was the only problem she could do something about, and so she seized it with ferocious intensity. Tomorrow I'll go shopping for new clothes and shoes, she told herself, staring up at the ceiling. I'll stay here at the base until I can afford a new apartment. There are cheap ones along Coffin Boulevard; I'll look into that. I will pick up the pieces of my life, as I did after I left the family, as I did after the Schism. I will go on, like always. I will always know my way around.

But could you really go on, if the revolution fails? whispered her treacherous inner voice. Could you really go on, with him dead?

She sat up, a snarl of frustration tearing itself loose from her throat. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw Joly's silhouette at the dining table. She was about to call out, to ask him what he was doing, but she registered the stooped shoulders, the bent head resting on folded palms.

Modern New Advent didn't have any major organized religions. There were the little cults that venerated certain angels such as Samael, the Seraphim commander that had driven the Fury Alecto back into the chasm; there was Ishtar's church, its members calling themselves the Unforgiven, who had felt her touch during the days of peace and were loath to let it go. But most citizens, when they did pray, prayed to the void, the space between the realms, which was said to govern the laws of the universe and the vagaries of chance.

It was too dark to read Joly's lips as they moved soundlessly, but Éponine could guess what he was asking the void for. There were certain chants that every child on the surface knew by heart. Evening star, watch over me. Red planet, guide me home.

And there was also the one addressed to the moon, the only prayer that Joly could possibly be saying now. Éponine blocked out the words as soon as she thought of them; the void cared nothing for her, and she'd made fun of it so many times that it would probably do the opposite of what she wanted, just out of spite.

She leaned against the wall. Darkness settled into pinpricks on her lashes. She had always had difficulty falling asleep in new places, even in the time before.

The skyline glows silvery green beyond the windows of Enjolras' penthouse suite. Golden fire dances in the hearth, warming her bare skin. She stretches luxuriously on the carpet, rubbing her back on the soft fur. Enjolras, eyes half-closed the way they always are in the afterglow, presses a slow, drowsy kiss to her shoulder.

"That was fairly pleasant," he mumbles against her skin.

She pinches his nose. "I missed you, too, you dork." They hadn't seen each other in days; he'd been working overtime on a particularly intricate lawsuit, and, so, when she stepped out of Montfermeil after her shift a few hours ago and saw him standing on the sidewalk, waiting for her, she'd been so overjoyed that she'd squealed and thrown herself into his arms, raining scarlet-lipstick pecks on every inch of his face that she could reach. They've gotten to that point in dating where it's okay to miss each other, to be glad to see each other.

"Can't breathe," he says, tugging at her wrist to remove her grip from his nose. He holds the offending hand in his, lacing their fingers together and placing them on his chest.

She glances at the clock on the wall. "It's pretty late. I should get going."

He nips her earlobe. "Or you could stay the night."

She laughs, to cover up her awkwardness. "Thanks, but it takes me hours to fall sleep in new places. I'd be a zombie tomorrow." It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either. Staying the night will mean waking up to him in the morning, her dreams tangled with his. She's not sure if she's ready for that kind of intimacy.

He turns to face her, sliding a palm up the curve of her waist, and then to the small of her back, holding her closer to him. "These are my arms," he says quietly, his features soft in the firelight. "This is not a new place."

When she still peers at him doubtfully, he continues, in slightly tetchier tones, "I bought ice cream."

And she laughs again, and this time it's genuine. "Okay," she says, grinning. "Let's give it a shot."

It's not perfect. She takes up more than half of the bed due to her unorthodox sleeping positions, and he steals the pillows to retaliate. He tries to snuggle, but she nudges him away because it's too warm. He keeps poking her because she won't stop snoring.

When the sun finds them in the morning, they're both grumpy, ashen-faced, and baggy-eyed.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Éponine grunts.

Enjolras wearily rubs his chin, mulling it over. "Perhaps we shall have better luck at your apartment," he suggests.

And in the two years to come, this is what will always get her about him- how he tries so hard to make things work. How he never rests until it all turns out okay.

The obsidian surface of the Styx boiled and gurgled in its banks, as if the river itself felt the turmoil currently tearing the land apart. Water trickled out of Combeferre's ears and dripped from his clothes as he hauled himself onto the shore after a blow from the Fury Megaera's wing had pitched him into the river. He ducked to avoid the shadow knives hurled his way by a couple of Envy demons, drawing his pistol in the same swift movement and firing at them, always eternally grateful for the fact that Templar weapons were waterproof. The attackers dropped to the ground, screaming as the white light of holy water tore them apart, and another revolutionary finished them off in a swath of hellfire.

Where in blazes is Grantaire? Combeferre thought angrily. He could definitely use the Marquis' power of invisibility, now that they were battling fucking ninjas.

Tisiphone was already heavily wounded, no longer able to fly and hissing at the demons that tried to approach her, slashing at their stomachs with her monstrous claws. Megaera was tracing circles in the sky, occasionally swooping down to wreak havoc on Resistance squadrons.

Alecto was nowhere to be found, and this worried Combeferre. What if she'd flown to the capitol district? The imp's message from Enjolras had been clear: Keep the Kindly Ones away from me.

The old girl hasn't been the same since Samael injured her in the Schism, Combeferre consoled himself. And the Furies work best in threes. They can handle her alone.

A length of chain darted out from seemingly nowhere, wrapping around the barrel of the gun. The Templars had trained him for this; he let go of his weapon and leapt to the side, the double-edged blade only managing to graze his sleeve and nothing more, and the assailant ended up smacking into the wall of ice that Combeferre hurriedly conjured on the spot where he'd previously been standing.

"Oof," muttered the Envy demon through the black mask covering half its face. Silver eyes narrowed at Combeferre, followed by a swarm of throwing stars.

The Duke of Vainglory had no choice but to dive behind the nearest boulder, which shuddered and cracked as the shadow blades sank deep. He blinked in confusion as his palm rested on something warm, and when he looked down it turned out to be Grantaire's crotch.

"Darling," the Marquis of Acedia slurred, his breath releasing toxic fumes of asphodel wine, "this is a rather bad time to start hitting on me, isn't it?"

Combeferre snatched his hand away and used it to smack Grantaire upside the head. "This is a revolution!" he yelled, throwing calm to the wind. "Why are you drunk?"

Grantaire's pale, red-rimmed eyes stared blearily at the withered treetops that rustled overhead in the wind beating from Megaera's vulture wings. "Why shouldn't I drink?" he grumbled. "This is indeed a revolution, but it is not mine. Why shouldn't I drink? My doom draws nearer. The oracle told me so. I will bleed for you all, but, first, I shall find solace in my cups."

"What do you think we're fighting for?" Combeferre demanded. "You- you oaf! I have slain my brothers so that the Throne of Isis and all the oaths may be broken, so that destiny may change. Fate can be rewritten."

Grantaire's lips curved in a sardonic smirk. "Not my fate, I fear." And then he would say no more, choosing instead to hum some bawdy tune, his head lolling to the side.

Combeferre sighed in frustration, and then rushed back to the battlefield. Megaera spotted him, and dove.

The river, he thought wildly, desperately. He waded into the churning currents of the Styx, and the Fury followed him, nipping at his heels. He had to time this right. One last gamble. He waited until Megaera was directly on top of the river, almost upon him, and he summoned all of his power, all of his strength, all the cunning that he'd accumulated throughout the years. He raised his arms and the waves roared up like pillars beneath Megaera-

- And he froze the river.

The pillars of water hardened into black icicles, and the Fury shrieked as their sharp points impaled her. Ichor gushed out, splattering on Combeferre's face and clothes like thick rain. All the combatants stopped in their tracks as the wounded, grounded Tisiphone howled, and then a great cheer rose up from the ranks as the revolutionaries fell upon the Envy legion with renewed enthusiasm and hotter hellfire.

The dying Megaera fixed her ruby eyes on Combeferre. She spoke, guttural and garbled, in the ancient tongue, the language of runes that he could read but not understand when it was uttered, used only by her and others like her, the Great Old Ones who had lived since time immemorial, who had seen Atlantis rise and fall.

He felt a twinge of regret that this knowledge would fade with Eve, with the remaining two Furies, with the sovereigns, but there was a new world waiting amidst the ghosts and ashes.

Sacrifice.

"Give my sincerest regards to Eurydice," he said, and the icicles climbed further, dug deeper. Megaera the Vengeful, daughter of night and pain, breathed her last.

He'd done it. He'd killed one of the Erinyes. The small part of him that was still a child whispered, Limbo is too good for you.

But I froze the Styx, Combeferre told himself, waist-deep in ice. They will never forget this. It was perhaps too vain a thought, but he was Vainglory, after all. I will live forever.

Joly heard one of the bunk beds creaking, and he looked up and saw a shape moving in the darkness.

"Ep?" he called.

"I can't sleep," came the grudging reply.

He went to sit beside her on the mattress, cautiously draping an arm around her shoulders. She drew up her knees and rested her head on them.

"When Enjolras came back, I wanted to hurt him. So much. Hurt him the way he hurt me," she said in a thick, rotten voice, because Éponine never did anything half-assed; for as long as Joly had known her, she'd crashed into rage, making no distinction between it and sorrow. "Every time I looked at him, I saw Azelma. And there was this part of me that hoped his revolution would fail, that he would die. A life for a life, isn't that so? It seemed only fitting." She buried her face deeper, shielding it with her arms. "I am not a good person."

"Ep…" Joly's grip tightened. "You loved them with all you could. You may not be a good person, but you're one of the best I know. Okay?"

She didn't respond, and the two of them sat in silence, just two kids holding each other all through the long night.

The Shrieking Castle was completely surrounded by a wall of insurmountable thorns. At Enjolras' command, fireballs were hurled at it, but the foliage refused to burn.

"Eve," Azazel hissed. "That bitch."

One of Lilith's dragons snapped at him. "Watch it," said Lady Air. "No one calls her a bitch but me."

A messenger imp arrived. "Megaera, Tisiphone, and the Nightmare Child are dead. Alecto has made herself scarce," it told Enjolras. "But the legions have regrouped. They're marching to the capitol. They will get here before the rest of our forces."

Azazel studied their ragtag army. "My Prince, we are never going to tear down this wall in time. We have to fall back."

"No," said Enjolras, his hand already on Excalibur's hilt. "We're already here. There is no point in going away."

"Live to fight another day, young one," Lilith murmured.

"I will live in freedom," Enjolras replied, his blue eyes ablaze, "or nothing at all. This is my stand. Will you take your place with me?"

Azazel and Lilith glanced at each other, and then, slowly, they nodded.

Courfeyrac peeped at them from the other bunk. "You guys can't sleep, either?"

"Yeah," said Joly. "Come join the party."

The other boy eagerly clambered out of his bed and sat beside Éponine. After mere seconds, Bossuet joined them, somewhat sheepishly, perching on the edge of the mattress and curling up at their feet. The bunk groaned under the combined weight of all four of them.

"We did the right thing, didn't we?" Bossuet wondered out loud. "I lost so many during the war- fellow soldiers. Men and women I befriended over the months. I don't want that to happen again. If the revolution is the only way to stop Dis from invading us- then I don't care if we get into trouble. Do you?"

The two other boys nodded assent, while Éponine remained as still as a statue.

"I still dream about my kids sometimes," said Courfeyrac. "Well, they weren't mine- but, in a way, they were, y'know? There was nothing I could do. I wasn't fast enough, back then. I couldn't fight. Twenty of them, bright eyes and scabbed knees. They all called me Mister Courf. All gone. The inferno swallowed them whole."

The front door slid open and Jehan came in, smelling of the smoke from his poetry club. He flicked on the nearest lamp, but the light wasn't enough to dispel the darkness; it only lessened it.

"I thought I'd check up before I went home," he told his fellow Templars. And then, with a sudden burst of exuberance, the kind that only tense situations could bring out in people, he charged at the bed and jumped on top of Bossuet, who grunted in pain.

The weight was too much. The bottom bunk's frame collapsed, and all five of them went crashing to the floor, yelling in surprise.

Laughing, Joly smacked Bossuet's arm. "Has your bad luck become contagious?"

"What's the matter, all out of Echinacea tea?" Bossuet quipped.

They were in shambles, a tangle of limbs and pillows and loose metal bolts, but no one made a move to get up. After what seemed like an eternity, Éponine began to chant under her breath. Her voice was almost inaudible, but Joly caught snatches of the words he himself had prayed just a while ago.

"Moonlight, hold my heart and keep it safe," she whispered, a hymn of shadow, a song of smoke, falling all around, falling into the void. "Protect the one who loves me. Moonlight, bring him home."

He had watched Azazel fall, and even then he had not wanted to retreat, determined to chase the only thing he could hold on to. But Combeferre had arrived with his troops and dragged him away from the capitol district, with the help of a drunk, clumsy Grantaire.

Enjolras had tried to resist, had struggled in their grasp, but Combeferre hissed, "You cannot let your men die this way. This futile blockade will not be our last stand. Do you hear me, General? We will go down fighting, but it will not be here in the capitol, where they pick us off like flies."

And so they had retreated, and so now they were in the Valley of the Dead, that bleak and desolate region where all the lost souls went- mortals who had loved demons, mortals who had not died in peace.

There were only about three hundred Resistance fighters left. On the opposite end of the realm, the Untitled were cowering in the slums. Imps had been dispatched to beg for help, but Enjolras already knew, with a cold and gray certainty, that no help would come. The people had not stirred.

Beside him, Lilith flexed her fingers and grimaced when she could produce nothing more than brief sparks. "I'm all out, my Prince," she said. Not even the most powerful demons could sustain their hellfire if they were worn to the bone, and she had already done the work of an entire regiment.

"Rest," Enjolras told her, and then he made his way to Combeferre, shouldering past the shimmering human-shaped mists that wandered the valley in the shadow of the mountains. Pale-eyed phantoms, all of them, some blood-stained murder victims while some wore the hospital gowns they had died in.

"Where are Feuilly and Bahorel?" Enjolras asked.

Combeferre shrugged. "I sent messengers, but I have not heard back from the Waste Lands."

Enjolras nodded grimly, ignoring the hollow ache in his heart. "And Grantaire?"

"Passed out in one of the caves, drunk off his arse."

The line of Enjolras' mouth softened. "I would not have it any other way, truly."

Combeferre managed a short laugh. "Yeah. I suppose."

They looked at the remnants of their army, most slumped on the ground and tending one another's wounds, while all around them ghosts blurred and whispered and wept silvery tears.

"Do you think she's here?" Combeferre asked.

"Yes." The child had died in battle, after all. Caught in the crossfire.

"Do you think she'll come to you?"

"I hope not. She doesn't owe me any favors."

Combeferre fell silent. They stood side by side under a darkening sky, the air smelling like rain and asphodel.

"I told Éponine-" Enjolras' voice cracked. He cleared his throat and began again. "I once told her that when she died, I would come for her here. That I would find her and lead her back to the city, and petition Hades to give her Second Life." Second Life was granted only to human souls who had demons to speak for them. Second Life was forever.

It had been a good dream.

"What did she say?" Combeferre prodded.

Enjolras found himself smiling. It was strange that he could still smile, even now. "She told me I was an arrogant bastard for assuming she'd go to the underworld for me."

"That's our Ep," Combeferre said warmly.

An imp flew into their midst. "The Morningstar's forces have reclaimed the capitol," it said. "They should be here in half an hour, if not sooner. Watch the skies."

The next few minutes were spent in a flurry of activity. Enjolras and Combeferre went among the troops, handing out last-minute instructions and what words of encouragement they could offer. Finally, they placed themselves at the head of the straggly formation, bracing for the last stand.

When the first sign of wings loomed on the horizon, Combeferre suddenly blurted out, "General." It was a teasing nickname, but sometimes he used it when it was important.

Enjolras glanced at him, but his friend was staring straight on, refusing to meet his eyes. "What is it, Combeferre?"

"I think I saw her, on the last day of the Schism," Combeferre said, voice cool and solid, but a slight tremor in his hands. "Before you gave the order to detonate the street, I think I saw Azelma there. But I wanted- I wanted to win. I didn't know the Morningstar would proclaim surrender so soon afterwards. I thought we could still win, and I-" He faltered, and then soldiered on, like Combeferre always would. "I didn't warn you. I'm sorry."

Enjolras released the breath he'd been holding for years. "Okay." He clapped his second-in-command on the back as the roar of the approaching legions filled the world. "Okay."

She realizes she loves him on the day of the typhoon, when the power goes out and high-speed gales blow in from the sea, whistling through New Advent, rattling the windows of the apartment on the corner of Requiem and Bone.

"Good thing you didn't go home yet," she remarks as he sits on the couch and blows fire onto candle wicks.

"Yes. Good thing I was… detained."

She grins as she slides herself into his lap, looping her arms around his neck. "I can detain you some more, if you want."

He smirks, his hands caressing the point where the material of her shorts met her bare thighs. "Well, your sister is taking a nap." He leans forward slightly, nudging her nose with his.

Outside, the city is going to hell, lightning streaking across the clouds, debris smacking into window-glass. But here, in this apartment, the candlelight is soft and golden and he smells like linen and sandalwood. She tangles her fingers in his blond hair as his head dips lower to nuzzle her neck, his lips tracing her collarbone. She sighs contentedly, looks at the scene outside the windows, where the sky is black and electric-charged.

His hand is already beginning to wander, slipping up her shirt, grazing her waist, the side of her breast. She's tense with anticipation, but, all of a sudden, the hand transfers to her back and he hugs her tight, as if reassuring himself that she's still there. It occurs to her with startling clarity that he's done that so many times, and maybe she hasn't been paying attention to what it means.

"Hey," she says. She can't explain it, but she needs to see his face.

He looks up. "Yes?" he murmurs, voice husky, blue eyes dark.

And that's when she knows.

"Fire of my blood," she teases, using those archaic terms of endearment that she sometimes makes fun of him for. "The air in my lungs." She brushes a lock of stray golden hair from his forehead, and her voice is still light-hearted, but her gaze is serious. "You. Always you."

He kisses her, and they smile against each other's lips.

To Be Continued