Author's Note: Hello again! Just going to sneak this here (I currently don't have internet at home so I'm quickly using my college's WiFi for this, and didn't know when I would have the opportunity to do it again).

Just a tidbit about the nightmare scene of this chapter-I've had it sitting in one of my fics that I wrote before I started LIM, and still thought it was decent enough to use here. It's about three years old, while LIM is a bit over two. (And if you take a peak at one of the earlier chapters, Chapter 10, I believe, you'll find this isn't the first time Enjolras has had this nightmare...)

Okay, that's all. Enjoy! :)

He did not understand exactly what was going on and why. All that he understood was he could not stop running if there was any chance of survival.

He could hear the sound of footsteps coming from behind him, a multitude of them, giving him the impression that for some reason, he was being chased. With every step he took, no matter how fast he ran, he felt as if the footsteps were only getting closer, and with getting closer, being louder. For every time his foot hit the cobblestone street, it seemed that it took them three times longer to do the same, as if they were moving at a much slower pace, like walking or even a march.

The sound of thunder loomed overhead, and every once in a while, his eyes managed to catch the quick flash of light brought on from the storm. The rain was pouring down harshly, giving him no mercy as he ran through the Parisian streets. His clothes were already drenched in the downpour, causing them to cling to his skin with every movement he made. He could even feel the wetness of the rain in his boots. His normally light-brown curls were dark with rain, the ends occasionally showing water dripping from them. He kept looking side to side, looking for a form of shelter that would at least hold throughout the storm, but none was visible, and even if he did stop to knock on any of the many doors, he risked being captured by whoever was chasing him.

The footsteps were getting louder and louder, almost to the point where he found it deafening. He kept running, despite the fact they were only getting closer and closer, no matter how fast he moved his feet. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he could barely breathe. He knew he was growing tired and that he could not keep it up much longer. He prayed for it to stop, for whatever this was to end, hoping for whatever had happened, mercy would be shown. However, he knew that his wish was not going to be granted as the lightning flashed once more and the crack of thunder made itself heard. The chase behind him, just as the storm above him, was relentless.

He could barely recognize where he was. His surroundings were basically a blur of shapes that moved on both sides of him. He had not taken the opportunity to assess where he was in hopes he would be able to find a small spot to hide so that he could evade capture, but found that by doing so, he would waste time getting away. He had taken so many twists and turns that he was lucky to have not run into whoever was chasing him. He had run through wide and narrow streets and moved hurriedly in the dark alleyways.

He found it strange that throughout this whole time he had been running, that not a person was to be found, friend or foe, strange or familiar. He had suddenly come to the realization that he did not see any form of life as he had woven through the streets, not even a small little mouse or the 'caw' of crow. He found that rather odd, since the streets were normally filled with Parisians of all classes. However, the streets were deserted, with him being the only form of life on them, as well as whoever was behind him. He half-believed that this was due to storm, but he reasoned that there could be another cause for the emptiness of the streets.

He momentarily stopped when he suddenly came face-to-face with a street-wide pile of furniture. Chairs, couches, stools, ladders, and even a few pianos were in view, along with a few wooden carts, a mattress, and what appeared to be a streetlamp. Without wasting any more time, he climbed the structure, not fretting over how unstable the mass was but rather by who was behind him. He scaled it in haste but found difficulty as a few pieces of furniture tumbled down behind him, sometimes causing him to slip or lose his balance, the wood of the structure being wet and slick from the rain, and his whole body being drenched did not help his situation. After much trial-and-error, as well as effort, he found himself at his peak. He did not hesitate climbing down to the other side, slipping a few times but was able to quickly recover.

However, near its bottom, his boot got caught in one of the crevices. He managed to get himself free, but not without tumbling down the rest of the way. He hissed in pain as gravity had forced his body to come in contact with the cobblestone street.

Without hesitation, he quickly stood up, only to soon realize a sharp pain in his leg. He cursed at himself, knowing how difficult it would be to continue running if he had done so much as to have broken it during his fall. He tried to move, but found it quite hard to do so. He wanted to scream from the pain and at the same time, he wanted to call for help, but he knew it would be of no use, that no one but those chasing him would get to him, and he sensed that they would rather sooner end his life than help it. They were the fox and he was the rabbit, and the rabbit had managed to get himself trapped in a place with no way of escape.

Finally, after much self-convincing, he stood up and moved inside the building that stood the closest in his state. He hurriedly limped, not even letting his foot come in contact with the ground, not even looking to see how close those chasing him were to him, knowing that right now, all that mattered was getting out of there and getting somewhere much safer than outside on the cold wet ground. An agonized scream came from his mouth as his injured leg came in contact with the entrance of the building, the shock from the pain almost resulted in him collapsing to the ground once more. He looked up to assess where he could hide in the space. It looked familiar, though he found it strange he could not place how familiar it was and why. The room was rather empty, with the exception of a few scattered papers on the floors, as well as a few glass bottles and a rope. To his right, his weary blue eyes caught sight of a staircase. He heard the footsteps growing louder behind him as the seconds ticked by, and with great difficulty, climbed up the stairs in haste, trying to ignore the massive amount of pain in his leg as he moved. He wished he could have grasped the railing as he climbed, or rather crawled, up the stairs, but there was none, though based on some of the edges of the wood, there had once been some there.

He sighed in relief as he managed to reach the top step, feeling at least somewhat thankful that he no longer had to do such. He did not pause for long to relish in his feat, but he still had much more to overcome before doing so. Once again, he looked around and saw that the room looked rather familiar, but once more, could not place it. It was empty, except for a few pieces of parchment that laid scattered in one of the corners on the floor. There was no place to hide, he quickly realized, knowing he had reached a dead end, unless those chasing him had given up in their pursuit. Unfortunately, he was not lucky, for the footsteps were louder than ever, and he even heard a few shouts of orders, a few containing his name. It was official now. All hope was lost. He was not making out of this alive, injured or not. He moved to stand but quickly collapsed, his body weak from running and his one leg throbbing in pain, rendering him immobile. He could now not even find the strength to try once more. Not even his arms were capable of pushing himself back up. He simply laid there, knowing that he no longer had a chance, that he was inevitably going to be found, captured, and most likely, killed, by those chasing him.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and made no effort to move at all, knowing he could no longer save himself. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and when he opened them once more, he found himself surrounded by men with muskets in red and blue uniforms. They all carried serious expressions on their faces, none of them looking to give sympathy on the tired and injured man. He wasn't going to ask for it either, knowing there was no chance he would be getting any, regardless of how minor of the thing he had done that had provoked them into chasing him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He found himself too weak to even to such a simple task as to speak, but knew that even if he was capable of doing so, it would not change his fate. The only sound he made and the only movement he did was that of breathing. Everything else was still.

The men surrounding him only looked at him. Not even a musket was pointed at him, but rather only held in their hands.

"What is there to wait for?" he asked weakly, his voice full of pain. "You have me. There is nowhere for me to run, nowhere to turn to."

There was a reply from a man who appeared to be the leader, but he heard none of it due to his sudden shriek of pain when one of the other men lightly kicked his injured leg with his foot. Shortly afterwards, he saw the muskets suddenly aimed at him and ready to fire. The leader had a barely noticeable look of remorse on his face. The man looked almost close to him in age, and he did not hesitate to guess that it was very likely that the positions could be switched in the matter of a small change in the past. At one point they could have been friends, could have grown up on the same street. This could have been true. Maybe the leader recognized him from somewhere, a possible reason for the look of remorse, though he could not place the leader's image in his mind. Yet here they were, a leader standing in the looks of a sorry triumph while a defenseless man laid on the wooden floor in defeat.

There was a long silence before anything else was done.

"Shoot me," he demanded, not wanting to prolong the inevitable any longer. His voice was full of pain and pleading. He soon felt his leg being kicked again by the same man as before, and he once more yowled in pain. He observed the leader quickly glare at the man before returning his gaze to the man lying on floor. The look of remorse returned soon after, despite how barely noticeable it was.

The leader nodded, and he heard the many clicks of ready muskets.

He was ready. As much as he would rather not die, he was prepared to do so regardless of what had happened. There was no way out, and he had no choice but to face it. This was what fate had chosen for him, and it was impossible for it to be changed, too late to change now. He could try and plead for mercy, hoping the leader would possibly give him some sympathy, but found it of no use. The leader was a man of order. He only followed the orders he was given by a higher power, and therefore had no right in saving the injured man before him, regardless of how he felt. The leader would have no choice but to execute his family and friends if told to do so, unless risk execution himself by not following orders. Shooting the defenseless man on the floor was just another order he had no control over, and nothing more.

He looked around the room once more, taking in the last things he would ever see—National Guardsmen with their guns pointed at him, a man with a look of remorse on his face, and a once-white ceiling that had become beige in color with age.

There was the order of fire, the sound of gunshots ringing out shortly afterwards, and his world went black.

Enjolras' eyes snapped opened soon afterwards. In panic, he started to grasp the bedsheets frantically, in order to reassure himself that he was safe, that he was out of harm's way. That there was no barricade, that he was not being pursued like a carnivore's prey, that he was not about to face a firing squad.

His alarmed eyes looked around the room. White walls darkened by night, the moonlight placing shadows of raindrops on them as if they were a canvas. Rain was pouring on the outside, tapping against the windowsill. He could hear the faint creaking on the aged house, possibly joined by the sound of a lone mouse scrurrying across the floor.

It was calm. There was nothing he should be afraid of. It was only a nightmare, except it was frighteningly familiar.

The sudden crack of thunder that roared from above was enough to spook him. He went tumbling out of the bed, taking much of the blankets with him.

He heard the door creak open just as he was gathering himself from the floor.

"Is everything all right in here?" Corinna's voice was laced in worry as her eyes searched the room.

"I will be fine." Enjolras replied with an exacerbated breath, standing up and placing the sheets back onto the bed. "No need to fret."

The widow took a few steps into the room, glancing towards the floor and the bed. She turned her attention back towards him. "Where's Eponine?"

"Sleeping." He then took notice of the empty bed and tiredly shook his head. "Out for a walk, most likely."

"In this storm? At night? Alone?"

"She is capable of caring for herself."

Corinna heaved a sigh. "Not easily, not in her condition…Has she done this before?"

He nodded in reply as he sat down on the bedd. "However, not in awhile."

"It isn't safe for her out there." Corinna's gaze fell towards the window. "She grew up out there, I know, where life is cruel and unfair. She likely knows these streets better than you or I, but I still fear her safety."

"She will come back, madame." Enjolras said with certainty. "She always has."

She turned her head, taking a deep breath. "Not…not always, Enjolras."

"Pardon?"

Corinna took a seat at the foot of the bed, her eyes focused on the window. "When she lost her memory, you were quite…out of sorts. You believed you failed them, her, Maximilienne, that you failed at protecting them. Every time you saw Eponine unconscious in that bed, you left the room, in the back of your mind thinking it was all your fault. You could not look Millie in the eye without fearing what would have happened to her had she not been with you at the Musain that night.

"When Eponine woke up and it was discovered that her memory was lost, you were greatly upset. You felt responsible for all of it. You asked Rainier if Millie could stay with us, believing it was the best way to keep her safe. As for Eponine…she took off in the middle of the night, but when you found out, you did not go searching for her. You let her go. You thought it was for the best, that she would be safe without you. You let her be, all the way up to the barricades.

"You didn't recognize her at first in her disguise, donning Feuilly's cap that hid her hair and the men's clothes that came from who knows where. When Monsieur Pontmercy was killed by trying to protect her, only then did you notice." Corinna briefly looked at the floor. "She had come back, I suppose, but not for you, not for two months."

"You think she would repeat the act of flight?" Enjolras asked, moving towards her.

"I would not put it past her…but the fact that she has stayed here since she found you, I have wondered why, especially since there have been times where she had believed it best to leave."

A pause.

"Maybe I should go out and look for her." Enjolras finally said, standing up. "And perhaps pray that she indeed has the intention of coming back."

Knock, knock.

At first, Joly thought it might have been a bird that may have hit the window or a mouse that was living inside the wall. He ignored it, going back to sleep. At least, he was going to try.

Knock, knock.

He glanced at the longcase clock. Half-past four, the night sky still present. Who would even be up at this hour?

Knock, knock.

Reluctantly, he rose from the couch and made his way to the door.

"Monsieur Joly?" a feminine voice called from the other side. Knock, knock. "Monsieur Joly, are you there?"

"Eponine?" he thought aloud before opening the door. He did not even have a chance to say hello before the gamine brushed past him. It was clear to him without even asking that something was bothering her.

She took a seat on the couch where he slept, arms folded across her chest. Her dark brown hair, though soaked from rain, appeared as if she had been in a hurry, as if she had woken up and left. She was shivering, her nightclothes and the lack of a proper coat being reason for that on a rainy night.

"Eponine," he sat down beside her, putting a blanket over her shoulders. "Eponine, what is it?"

"Tell me," she said quietly, her gaze directed to the floor.

"What about?"

"You remember so much that I don't. You remember things that Enjolras doesn't. You knew both of us before our memories were lost. You know things that neither of us do." Eponine said quickly, as if she were running out of breath. "There are things you have been keeping from me, from the both of us…Why, I do not know, but…I can just...It's a strange thing, not to know, and then to realize it's been in front of you all along…"

"I do not believe I follow."

Hesitantly, she replied, "Tell me about what I cannot remember. Tell me about my life with Enjolras."