A/N I always feel like I have something important to say in these things and then I get to actually writing them and I'm left with nothing but…enjoy.

Oh, and sorry as well. I did some terrible things in this chapter. I hope you, and the Amis might forgive me one day.

Chapter Forty-five

Enjolras ran as quickly as he could across the muddy morass that lay in front of the Musain, boots sliding out precariously, threatening to bring him crashing down. Dropping his shoulder he barged through the knot of people gathered near the barricade, crashing into Jehan who was sobbing unreservedly even as he battled with what appeared to be an overturned wagon twisted in its place in the barricade as the cannonball exploded through it. He allowed himself a brief swallow to quell the horror in his throat at the sight but then surged forwards to help.

"We're getting you out of here," Enjolras promised through gritted teeth as he too put his shoulder to the avalanche of wood and stone that had collapsed without warning.

Courfeyrac panted up at him, too pale skin beaded with sweat as he attempted to ignore the excruciating pain he was undoubtedly in. His right arm scrabbled uselessly at the air; his left arm was trapped to the shoulder in the fallen barricade. Through the wood Enjolras could see glimpses of pearly bone and pumping blood and he searched desperately for a way to free his friend from the vice that held him.

"We need to get a tourniquet around his shoulder," he said to Jehan tersely, tears of his own threatening to match those drying on the younger man's cheeks. "Getting him out is useless if he bleeds to death first."

As Jehan fumbled with his leather ammunition belt Enjolras bent to clasp Courfeyrac by the neck, pressing their foreheads together in a moment of promise and apology.

"You…n-need to…be-believe Aime-ee," Courfeyrac stammered his teeth clicking together as the cold of shock set in. "Sto-op-pp being…so-oo…stupid." The last word was cut off in a muffled whimper as Jehan pulled the belt tight around the mangled limb.

Smiling briefly Enjolras turned and began digging through the tangle that held Courfeyrac. "Let's get you out of here first," he suggested, "then we can talk about Aimee. She's safe in the Musain right now; don't worry about her."

"Enjolras!" Rene barked, striding over with a musket in either hand and a pistol in his belt. "We think something has gone wrong with the cannon. Our lookout says they still haven't reloaded and are struggling. We're going to take the cannon – it'll be what wins this fight for us; I need you with me, now." He held out one of the muskets, every line of his body suggesting in quiet threat that Enjolras take it.

It was what needed to be done and, today, that seemed to be the only thing driving him – doing what needed to be done. But as Enjolras looked at the musket, at Rene, at Courfeyrac choking on pain behind him and the mess of the choices he had made in front of him, he realised, like being struck from above, that this would never end. This battle for one definitive, final blow to injustice that he had poured his life into was a fallacy, a mirage. The fight would not end with the taking of a cannon, or of St Michele, or even of Paris. The musket wavered in front of his eyes as he realised what he had given up due to that false belief, what he had sacrificed and put aside on the idea that one fight, one last uprising would solve the problems the world had been battling for generations and millennia.

Something Courfeyrac had said to him months before, the day after he had driven Aimee from the apartment they had shared with bad choices and mistruths, came to his mind in that moment - that you need something to fight for and that the good of the nation was sometimes a little too broad. Well, right now it was not the nation bleeding to death before his eyes and relying on him. Rene may disagree, but Enjolras knew as he had rarely known anything before, that loyalty to his friends was more important than loyalty to his country. His love for France may be the tree that that grown in his heart and soul for many years, but it was a tree fed and watered by the people he was driving away, by friends and by lovers. Sometimes a tree must be cut back to grow into something fruitful.

Reaching blindly he clasped Courfeyrac's shaking hand in his own and stared Rene dead in the eyes, seeing with shock the man he could have so easily become, the man he so nearly had been. Saw the true ruthlessness and the coldness in his eyes, the determination in his face that spoke of atrocities done in the name of good, of the hands stained with not just the blood of enemies but of innocents and friends that had been sacrificed for his ambition.

"My friend needs me more," he said firmly, and for the first time in far too long, the decision sat easily within his heart.

Something cold and ugly settled over Rene's face and he withdrew the musket as if he had been offering salvation to the damned and had been rejected. "Very well," he sneered, "but remember this moment as the one that your country cried out to you for help and you turned your head away." He spat in the mud at Enjolras' feet. "I hope you can live with that."

"I can live with my actions," Enjolras called after him as he turned to leave. "The question is, can you? Everything you have done this day and others before, can you truly lay them out before your conscience and live with them?"

As their eyes met, the blue cool with question and the golden brown sparked with arrogance, Enjolras recalled a scrap of an image from the square that morning. It was a mere snapshot, like one frame from a zoetrope, but it stuck out to him like a carefully illuminated painting in the Louvre. The moment the explosion had decimated the square there had been nothing but shock and terror on the faces of all those around him…except for one. Rene's face was closely framed in his mind, utterly calm: no surprise, no shock, no glancing wildly around to try and understand what was happening. Something Giles had said the day before – oh Heaven was it only the day before? – replayed in his mind… "Rene left procedures to be followed in the event of his capture…or death, plans we must now follow to the letter if we have any chance of releasing our comrade and winning this war."

'Rene left procedures'...it had seemed impossible at the time but now Enjolras knew it to be true and he knew that Rene saw it.

The insurgent shrugged. "Whatever sins may lay behind me are my burden to bear and mine alone; it is a burden I can live with because it is comprised of actions done for the greater good." He shook his head almost sorrowfully at the sorry trio crouched in the blood-slick mud. "And I can live with that knowledge far easier than knowing I failed my country at the moment I was needed most."

Without another word he was gone, leaping into action like a dervish, keeping men clear of the gap in the barricade until the last moment. "For Patria!" he screamed, bounding forwards like a hound on the trail. "Vive le France!"

Enjolras ignored the sounds of battle rising from the other side of the barricade as he risked his own life and limbs to pull and nudge and shift a space large enough to free Courfeyrac's arm. At some point the Centre had faded into thankful unconsciousness but blood still trickled thickly back towards his shoulder and down over his bared clavicle.

"Go and tell Joly to prepare for an emergency," Enjolras commanded Jehan, finally freeing a space large enough to grasp the tattered remains of Courfeyrac's left arm. It was Courfeyrac's writing arm, he realised belatedly, and the full force of what had happened to his friend hit him in a way he knew would be indescribably more painful when Courfeyrac too reached this point.

He didn't look at the arm as he slid it out, holding it as tenderly as possible despite knowing there was no way to save it. Only when the arm was clear and laid gently at Courfeyrac's side did Jehan step away towards the Musain. It was this delay that saved his life for if he had gone immediately, as instructed, he would have been in the direct path of the cannonball that ploughed through the open gap not one second later.

It crashed into the Musain between the open window of the upper floor and closed doors of the ground level, splintering the wood and cheap brick into fragments.

It didn't register to Enjolras what this might mean for Rene and his assault party. It didn't register to him that they could be only mere moments from being overrun. It only registered to him that the woman he loved and the friends that he needed were in that building and that he had to get to them.

He took two staggering steps, ears ringing from this latest explosion, when he heard the groan of snapping wood, a sound he would associate with this sodden, fated afternoon in June for the rest of his life. Before his eyes the Musain folded inwards, the poor structure and years of unfixable rot and neglect making the building unable to withstand the assault made against it. A cloud of ancient dust and memories rose from the rubble as it settled.

"We need to get them out!" Enjolras yelled, but was once more thrown back as the powder, stored in the building to stay dry, ignited and exploded. The rubble flew in every direction, crashing down around the helpless trio but miraculously harming none of them.

A final brick slithered down the broken pile…and then there was silence. It was a silence that seemed unnatural compared to the event that had preceded it – it was the silence of the dead, of the departed, of something lost that could not be replaced, of something destroyed that could never be rebuilt. This silence seemed to cover Paris for just a breath, no weapons firing, all sounds of pain muted.

It was a silence that drew Combeferre from his work of staunching the wound of a bloodied child.

It was a silence that guided Grantaire through his final breaths in an anonymous alley, staring at the sky and smiling.

It was a silence that made the hairs stand up on the back of Eponine's neck where she sheltered from the fighting in a hole in a wall, a set of pistols clutched tight in her hands.

It was a silence Paris felt to its core.

Enjolras' scream broke that silence, a primal howl that sent a shiver through the bones of everyone that heard it, for it was a sound of loss and despair and anger so deep it could shake the earth to its roots.

Enjolras wouldn't remember much of what followed. He wouldn't remember running to the still smoking ruin of the Café Musain and clawing at the bricks and timber until his hands bled. He wouldn't remember the triumphant roar that announced Rene's victory over the National Guard and the acquisition of the cannon. He wouldn't remember the sounds he made when he found Joly and Bossuet, beside one another until the end, the whimpers and pained snarls more befitting a wounded animal, but in that moment he was little more than that. He wouldn't remember how he came by the three inch burn scar on his forearm, the mark caused by his arm coming into contact with a red hot shard of the cannonball case in amongst the rubble.

He finally came to his senses sitting on a cracked apple crate by the wall of a house that had walled in the barricade, a familiar head bent over his bleeding hands. His eyes were dull and unfocused; his breathing rasping slightly from the dryness of his throat. All he could see was the remains of the Musain heaped before him and the growing line of bodies stretching out in front of it. Some had their faces covered with coats or blankets, others stared sightlessly up at the deep indigo of twilight that sprawled across the sky, the brief winking of a few early stars seeming to bring a spark of life back into their eyes once again.

A particularly strong burst of pain from his ripped knuckles made him start enough to draw Combeferre's eyes upwards. Neither of them spoke. What, indeed, was there to say? No collection of syllables could begin to encapsulate or express what they wished to say, could neither create an apology that could cover so many sins nor an expression of forgiveness that would not seem to ring false. And so Enjolras turned his eyes away, back towards the gory line up in the mud.

Combeferre's voice was quiet when he broke the silence that Enjolras had wrapped around himself, as if for protection. "They haven't found her yet," he murmured. "Don't give up hope."

Too late, Enjolras thought, guilt rising like bile in his throat. A moment later he realised it actually was bile and turned to the side to vomit into the mud. Combeferre said nothing but merely passed him a canteen filled with watered down wine to wash away the taste.

"Who else?" he rasped, jerking his head towards the bodies.

Combeferre looked up from wrapping gauze around the battered hands before him. "Apart from Joly and Bossuet?" His voice caught a little at the mention of their friends but he swallowed it down. From the way he glanced away as he prepared his answer indicated to Enjolras it wasn't going to be reassuring.

"No one made it out, did they?" he asked, despair settling like lead into his bones.

Combeferre finished the bandaging and rocked back on his heels. "No."

Enjolras closed his eyes briefly in grief. There had been good men in that building, too many of them with wives and families…and he, he had convinced them to join this fight. "What about Courfeyrac?"

Combeferre smiled heavily. "I did what I could and sent him off on a stretcher to the nearest hospital. The revolutionaries have taken all of the city between here and there as well as the hospital itself so it should be an easy journey."

"Good." It was the only response he could dredge up from the exhausted haze that filled his brain. Somehow he staggered to his feet, his denial of rest to his body seeming like a pitiful penance for those who had been sent to their eternal rest because of his actions.

"Bahorel carried Grantaire in about quarter of an hour ago," Combeferre said, rising with him.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras asked, trying to remember where the drunkard had been in all of this. "I didn't even know he was fighting with us today."

Combeferre led them over to one of the uncovered bodies, stepping aside as another mangled shape was lifted from the rubble by several sets of careful hands. He rested his hand briefly on Grantaire's cold forehead, brushing back a wild black curl in a move that could only be called tender. Watching him Enjolras felt the guilt crawling up his gullet once again.

"It will have been gentle," Combeferre said softly, sealing the blue-green eyes shut for the last time. "A pistol bullet hit his femoral vein, tore almost straight through. He bled out in the back doorway of a bar, a fact that would no doubt have been a source of great amusement to him had he known."

He rose to his feet with a sigh. "At least he died under an open sky. It was something he told me once, when he was deeper in his cups than normal and feeling more melancholy than usual – that he didn't mind the idea of dying, as long as it was under an open sky. An odd desire considering the number of near lethal brawls he would get himself involved in at dingy bars."

Silently Enjolras turned away and shrugged off Combeferre's hand when it landed briefly on his shoulder. The words, though no doubt meant as some kind of balm, burned at him like vinegar in an open wound and so he blocked it out. He heard the other man reluctantly move away.

"If you need me I'll be tending the wounded on the other side of the barricade," he said over his shoulder. The soft sound of his boots moving away reassured Enjolras he was alone for now.

Head bent in exhaustion he began to walk the line of bodies, stopping briefly at those he knew to take in their features, mangled or not. Over Joly and Bossuet he shed silent tears, the drops of water falling spontaneously, for he was too drained to cry fully. After he had walked the line once and then back again, lingering over Grantaire's still form, he staggered back towards the rubble. Ignoring the blood that bloomed over his fresh bandages he lost himself for a few blank minutes, everything else receding as he searched, one part desperately hoping to find what he sought, another shrinking from the prospect of that final killing blow to his spirit.

He almost missed it in the mess of wood and stone, only noticing because it reflected the light of the lanterns that Bahorel and Feuilly had lit to aid the searchers. The chain wrapped softly around his fingers, the locket nestling into his palm as the cheek of its owner once had. Both chain and locket were stained in places with the shade of red he never wanted to see again. Looking down at the small piece of Aimee that lay in his hands he knew now that whatever he had felt before and named heartbreak had been too filled with anger and blame to ever compare to this soul-shattering pain. His knees folded beneath him and he knelt, motionless in the remains of his life from before all of this madness. He had never got the chance to understand what happened, not really, and he had never got to tell her that he forgave her. She had died thinking he didn't trust her, didn't love her…and he was never going to be able to tell her the contrary. His eyes filled, red and raw and stinging from the tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, clutching the locket hard enough for the broken clasp to leave an indentation in his skin.

"Look out!" Bahorel yelled the warning from above as a huge beam leaned and toppled in a spray of dust and embers. The movement had a ripple effect, knocking rubble everywhere.

Enjolras dived to the side, more instinctively than voluntarily. He landed hard, bruising his ribs and knocking the air out of his lungs. Groaning softly he re-gripped the locket in his hand and opened his eyes, spitting out grit as his lids begged to close again. It took him a moment for his eyes to focus, but once they did a wild, irrational hope began to fight for attention somewhere deep inside.

The brass handle of the door to the Musain's wine cellar gleamed dully in the light from the lanterns, the smooth surface smeared with blood in some places. But unlike before, the sight gave him a surge of energy. Because it was possible. Not likely, or even rational, but just possible that somebody had made it into there.

Without care for his torn hands he scrabbled at the debris weighing down the door. Only when the corner of the wooden square immerged did he allow himself to dare to call out her name.

"Aimee!" he panted, mouth close to the wood. "Aimee, if you're in there, I'm coming for you. I promise, just hold on until I get this clear!"

By now his cries had alerted the rest of the shrunken group that was once Les Amis and without a word they all dug in beside him, once again united, if only for a time. Together they fought to clear the door, all of their hope at that moment focused on three square feet of planks.

"Just be prepared…" Combeferre warned gently as they dug, but his words went unheeded as the last few bricks were pushed back and Bahorel heaved a cracked beam out of the way.

With a strength borne of desperation, Enjolras lifted the door and peered down into the Stygian darkness. Taking the lantern thrust at him by Feuilly he launched himself down the wobbling wooden stairs and into the cellar. Thick green glass refracted and reflected the meagre light and making the small space glow with an unearthly aura.

Aimee was curled on her side in a corner, legs tucked nearly to her chin, head rested on her arms on the bare dirt floor. Exhaustion marked every line of her face and her bruises morphed and shifted eerily in the greenish light. As he drew closer her heard the rattle of her breathing and saw the dried tears staining her face. Cuts on her temple and across her palm, the second much deeper and cleaner than the first, accounted for the blood on the handle and leeched even more colour from her already ghostly complexion.

She barely stirred as he lifted her and Enjolras rested her head softly against his shoulder, cradling her closer than he ever had before. He allowed himself a moment to stand, motionless, just to feel her heart beating against his own, to feel the fragile weight of her in his arms, to allow himself to accept that she was alive.

"I'm so sorry, Aimee," he choked into the tangled mess of her hair. "I'm so sorry."

And as he remerged from the cellar, passing her limp form up to the four other sets of waiting, caring hands, he prayed to a Heavenly Father that only this morning he hadn't believed even existed, that this one thing might escape undamaged. This one precious thing: Aimee.

A/N There are maybe only two or so more chapters of this to go – how scary is that? Please review; I cannot express how happy reviews make me.

Until next time, mes amis,

Libz xxx