A/N Thank you to the AMAZING people who reviewed the last chapter! I'm nearly at 200 and it's blowing my mind! There are only two more chapters to go before the end. It would mean a lot to me if you would review, even though this isn't as action-packed as the previous few. Everything just needed to calm down and therefore I give you: The Aftermath.

Oh, and just so you know I am so sorry for any pain caused.

Enjoy!

Chapter Forty-six

The fighting raged for three more days. Men and women alike united over a common cause and fought side by side in the streets, dying together for the ideas in which they believed. Despite the information passed on by informers that had burrowed into their ranks, such as those hired by The Patron, the revolutionaries clawed out a victory over the National Guard inch by bloody, brutal inch. Street by street the city fell but at a heavy cost to both sides. Outgunned and faced with trained troops it should have been an easy victory for the National Guard and in some instances the defeats of the rebels were swift and merciless. But what the National Guard did not expect, in fact what no one expected, was the sheer volume of people rising up as one. It was beautiful, it was terrifying; it was unstoppable.

On the fourth day the King finally called for a ceasefire. Louis Philippe d'Orléans was more than familiar what could happen to reigning monarchies when a rebellion gained traction – despite supporting the revolutionary movement his own father had been executed during the Reign of Terror only a few decades before. Though an unpopular monarch he was no fool; he knew that ignoring this problem would not make it go away. Even if he crushed the rebellion in Paris, at least ten other cities across the country were rising up, threatening to tear France asunder if that was what it took to gain their freedom. And so he ignored the insistent arguments of his parliament that they should not bargain with rebels and agreed to meet with the leaders of the rebellion. Le Faucon, of course, was among them, almost immovable in his demands and openly disdainful of the whole palaver, still holding the opinion that it was only by force and combat that the fate of the country could be decided. His fellow leaders were, thankfully, more lenient, leading to a temporary peace being secured. Despite this brief respite, the days that followed were tense and difficult; the sharp edge of uncontrollable anarchy hanging over all.

The dead were gathered, if not all buried, with the morgues being filled to overflowing as family members came to claim bodies. Musichetta stood silent and stiff beside Joly's still form when she went to bring her lover home, the weight of the ring he had given her only two days before hanging around her finger like a red-hot band of iron. Bossuet was, of course, buried beside his friend and Musichetta cried for them both while Eponine held her close, her own eyes leaking tears. Annette stood by Feuilly in a similar fashion as he and Bahorel laid Grantaire to rest in a simple wooden coffin in a quiet corner of an ancient graveyard. A bottle of the finest absinthe was poured over the fresh soil, the last third of the bottle being used in a solemn salute to the man who had died for friendship, despite claiming to believe in nothing. Others did not get this tender farewell. Those that were left unclaimed were buried hastily and with little ceremony, the gravediggers always keeping one eye trained on the possibility of another outbreak of fighting.

Enjolras, however, knew none of this, which some might call a blessing. As soon as he had felt Aimee lifted safely from his grasp whatever vestige of strength that had been keeping him upright abruptly ran out. He had dropped to the ground like a dead man, only Bahorel's quick thinking, and even quicker reflexes, stopping him from falling backwards into the still gaping entrance to the cellar, a fall that would have surely broken his neck. It was with tears in his eyes that Combeferre had checked for pulse, unwilling to lose yet another brother that day, sending out a prayer of thankfulness at finding the weak throb under his fingers.

In one broken, battered group they had made their slow way to the nearest hospital, the very same where Courfeyrac was currently being operated on. Once ensuring that their friends were suitably attended to Bahorel and Feuilly returned to the streets, the former to continue in the grisly excavation of the Musain and the latter to seek out Annette and assure himself of her wellbeing. Combeferre stayed with Enjolras, occasionally making the trip to the women's ward to check on Aimee. It was on one of these visits, two days later, that he met Marius Pontmercy dashing up the stairs, hatless and flushed from his rush.

"I just heard about…everyone," he panted, blinking very rapidly as if to clear his eyes of tears. "I can't…what…is there anything I can do?"

And that was how Enjolras found himself awakening not on the crowded ward filled with the stench of death and pain but in one of the quieter rooms with only one other curtained cubicle directly opposite his bed. He lay quietly for some time, trying to reconcile himself with his surroundings, allowing a brief moment of calm blankness. The deep ache in his muscles that came only from rigorous action followed by a long period of rest told him very little of the when, where, and how. Still blinking the haze of sleep from his eyes he sat up, every part of his body protesting. His bladder, however, cried out the loudest and thus movement was required.

Staggering back the privy closet in the corner Enjolras discovered that the ache was not simply from inactivity. His back and stomach hurt like he had been kicked by a horse and his hands throbbed dully beneath thick white bandages that had made relieving himself more than a little complex. With legs that shook with strain he collapsed back onto the clean linen sheets, the slight smell of carbolic soap clinging to them indicating he was in a hospital somewhere. This in itself was curious as he had no memory of being taken to a hospital, or indeed where the rest of the Amis were…well, what was left of them. Trying to fill in the blank section of his memory he closed his eyes, just a moment, to regain his strength. However, when he opened them again he knew that it had been far longer than he had intended; the distance travelled by the shard of sunlight that broke through the curtains bore witness to this.

The idea of being completely alone in this hospital made a weary anxiety rise in his chest but the thought of getting to his feet, let alone going to find someone who might be able to tell him who had brought him here, if there had been anyone to see him, indeed, simply just what day it was, made him sag back against the headboard with bones filled with lead.

Instead he stared at the ceiling, tracing the plaster moulding that edged the junction between wall and ceiling, and just breathed.

So…he was alive it seemed. Somehow. Through a backlog of memories as thick as treacle he tried to create a timeline of events, finding far too many gaps and breaks for his peace of mind, from the explosion in the square that Rene had engineered for his escape to the moment of lifting Aimee from the dark of the cold cellar into the light above…

He bolted upright, ignoring the twinge of pain that rippled down his body. Where was Aimee?

The squeak of the door handle heralded the opening of the door long before the person behind it came into view. Combeferre blinked in surprise, obviously not expecting Enjolras to be sat bolt upright in bed as if an electric charge had just gone through him. He paused in the doorway, allowing a few moments for them to look each other up and down; to take the measure of one another and check well-being, as well as to warily attempt to read the feelings of the other. Enjolras looked away first, sagging back against the pillows.

Stepping into the room Combeferre shut the door softly behind him and moved to the chair placed by the side of the bed. As he sat Enjolras reluctantly glanced across at him, but still could not meet Combeferre's eyes. Instead he just sat, silent.

"How are you feeling," Combeferre asked crisply and impersonally, the mantle of doctor-to-be spread invisibly over his shoulders separating the two of them even further as friends. "Any particularly painful areas? Nausea? Headache?"

Enjolras shook his head. "I'm fine," he murmured, ignoring the ache in his torn hands.

Combeferre eyed him disbelievingly. "Yes," he said dryly. "I'm sure with numerous lacerations to your hands, torn nails, dehydration, a twisted ankle, a cracked rib, bruised kidneys, and exhaustion you feel absolutely fine."

"Compared to others I am fine!" Enjolras snapped, then immediately fell silent again, the white curtains of the other cubicle reminding him that they were not alone in the room.

The silence settled between them again, wraith-like, pulling each of them into their own thoughts. Combeferre broke first, clearing his throat and standing up.

"I'll just give you a quick look over, if you're comfortable with it?" He raised his eyebrows in silent question and Enjolras couldn't miss the dark bags resting under his eyes. Heaven knew when Combeferre had last got any decent rest.

He realised Combeferre was still waiting for his acquiescence and nodded hurriedly, pulling himself up straighter. The young doctor began with the bandages on his hands, carefully unwrapping the dressing to check for infection and rate their progress.

"They're healing nicely," he commented, putting the bandages aside. "You can probably leave these off for now; they need some air."

It was the first time Enjolras had seen the damage done to his hands. The once smooth, golden skin that used to only be stained with ink was scattered with messy wounds and split fingernails. Every mark spoke of unreserved desperation and he quickly looked away.

"The leaders are in negotiations with the King at the moment," Combeferre said, lifting Enjolras' shirt off, leaving him only in cotton drawers. "Have been for a few days now."

At Enjolras' startled look he quirked a smile. "You've been slipping in and out of consciousness for the best part of a week. A fever got its claws into you on day three so you've been delirious for most of it. It broke last night but I didn't expect you up this quickly. Probably the most time you've spent in a bed in your life. Except…" He paused, as if uncertain as to if he should continue, which, after a moment of deliberation hidden by a thorough check of Enjolras' bruised back and cracked rib, he did. "Well, except for that time when you caught that chest cold after standing out in the rain for hours, handing out pamphlets and giving a speech on the steps of the university. Trying to make you stay in bed that time nearly killed me."

Enjolras flinched, the faces of his three friends and nameless others assaulting his memory. If Combeferre noticed he didn't comment.

"Has any good come of it?" he asked as Combeferre continued the examination.

Combeferre shook his head slowly as he moved up to peer into Enjolras ears, mouth, nose, and eyes. "They're merely circling each other like cautious dogs."

The examination apparently satisfactory he handed the shirt back to Enjolras who slipped it on gratefully. The large room was draughty.

Apparently spotting his quick perusal of the room from his place in the chair by the side of the bed Combeferre supplied, "Marius appeared here at the hospital a few days ago and out of the blue offered to pay for the care of you, Courfeyrac, and Aimee. Well, his Grandfather is paying most of it, though I suspect that is due to a little gentle cajoling from Cossette – she's a very sweet girl, the kind that even someone as ornery as Marius' grandfather couldn't resist."

Enjolras nodded vaguely, staring at the other cubicle as Combeferre's words filtered down through him.

"So that," he gestured with his head, "is Courfeyrac in there?"

Combeferre nodded, his eyes shadowing and his voice subconsciously quieting. "He's still drugged quite heavily for now. It's easier for him that way with the bandage changes and the pain. The sleep can only help."

"Did he...did he lose the arm?" Enjolras couldn't help but hope that somehow it might have been saved, suddenly very aware that he had left his friend unconscious by the barricade when the Musain had come down.

Combeferre nodded heavily. "They tried to save as much as they could but it's not much – a few inches from the shoulder."

The larger seventh wave of his constant grief broke over him at this, although the loss had been inevitable from the moment Courfeyrac put his arm out onto the barricade to steady himself as he clambered down, not knowing that a moment later the structure would shift and trap him. Enjolras tried not to think of the twisted tube of crushed bones he had eased from the barricade. Instead he gathered together the courage to ask the question that had been sitting awkwardly between them since Combeferre first appeared.

"Is…is Aimee alright? I don't…remember much of what happened…is she hurt badly or…?"

"Aimee left a few days ago to go and stay with Margo." Combeferre said neutrally. "The doctors here decided that her injuries were not severe enough to require her to stay in the hospital, though I disagreed. Now that you're awake they will say the same to you, I imagine. Missing limbs and ruptured organs take precedence over cracked ribs and lacerated hands."

"Which side of that line did Aimee's injuries fall?" Enjolras dared to ask, strategically avoiding eye contact as he carefully adjusted his position on the slightly hard bed. Too vividly he remembered her bruised throat and darkly swollen nose.

Combeferre's shoulders dropped as he paused to think, as if he were deciding how much he could afford to say. This mistrust, this distance between them…Enjolras had not expected it to be so painful – after all, he had expected to never see his friend again, to avoid this mess with a clean break in the form of death on the barricade for his righteous cause. Instead he was here, his righteous cause tarnished and worthless to him, foundering with a crossbeam of guilt and broken faith strapped across his shoulders. Friends were dead and permanently damaged because of his actions and others he may have lost simply because of his pride and stubbornness.

In the end, Combeferre gave no explanation. Instead he dug into his pocket and pulled something out, a thoughtful look on his face. "What happened to Aimee, and between Aimee and yourself…it is not my situation to be involved in," he said. "You need to talk, the both of you, whether you like the idea or not. To leave something like this, untouched and ignored, will only lead it to fester like an open wound." Here he passed Enjolras a small bundle of clean cloth, inside of which lay Aimee's locket, cleaned of any trace of blood or dirt, winking like it was new poured.

As if touching the most sacred of relics Enjolras took it in his battered hands. "Why haven't you given it her yourself?" he asked eventually, after a long moment of determinedly holding back tears. "Why give it to me?"

Combeferre gathered the discarded bandages and walked towards the door. "Because it needs to be you," he said, as if that explained everything. "Ignoring something that hurts doesn't make it go away and it will only cause you damage in the end, damage that can never been rectified."

As he spoke he held Enjolras in an eye contact that had been tempered by the events of the last weeks. A little of the innocence that had remained was gone but something older, wiser, rested in its stead. So when he took his leave with the words, "We will talk more in good time" Enjolras felt the weight behind them and the promise that while forgiveness may not be achievable, it would be attempted.

After everything that had happened, and was still unfolding, the complete normality of his homecoming was almost disconcerting to Enjolras.

Paris was practically back to normal despite the bloody havoc of that first day of fighting only being two weeks in the past. If not for the destruction that littered certain areas of the city, bloodstains on the flagstones, and a few revolutionary flags flying in tentative and hopeful victory it would seem as if nothing had ever happened.

Stepping down from the carriage that had brought him the final stretch of his journey from the hospital to his apartment on Rue Victorie Enjolras winced at the pull on his still healing rib. Convulsively, he grasped the locket tighter where it was hidden in his pocket. The carriage rumbled away down the street but he simply stood, looking up at the house that held so much history for him.

He almost knocked on the front door, so out of place did he feel, but at the last moment decided against it. Instead he entered quietly, as he had when returning from many late meetings and not wanting to awaken Margo. It still looked the same on the inside, though he didn't know why he expected it to have changed. Maybe it was because everything about him had changed so fundamentally. But the same treads on the stairs squeaked in the same places, the faint scent of slight damp and cinnamon and various flowers still hovered through the building. And Margo still had the hearing of a cat.

He had only made it two steps up towards his rooms when the landlady's door flew open and she appeared, tears immediately springing into her eyes.

"You're alive," she whispered, rushing forwards to engulf him in a hug, holding him in a way his own mother never had – fiercely, as if only near violence could express the strength of feeling within her, a far cry from the loving but delicate embraces of his youth.

Enjolras found himself hugging back, ignoring how his injuries protested. Here was one person over whom he felt no guilt, who didn't on some level blame him, who he hadn't betrayed or hurt. And just for a moment it felt good.

All too soon Margo pulled away, laughing through her sniffles and wiping away her tears self-consciously. However, the look she gave him next was far more serious, looking him up and down and noting the changes that had occurred. Whatever she saw pushed a little of the joy out of her eyes but she still found a smile for him.

"Aimee is in the garden," she said and Enjolras knew then that she knew, knew what he had done and thought and misjudged and that she disregarded it all. If only he could do that for himself.

"Thank you," he murmured, changing direction to head back down the stairs and out to the garden.

Aimee was on her knees by the herb bed, tugging free the weeds that were trying to choke the mix of culinary and medicinal plants Margo had painstakingly put in over the years, when she heard the door to the garden open and close.

"Is the ginger beer cool enough already?" she asked, turning to see if Margo needed help with the jug and glasses she had gone to get a few minutes before. Only it wasn't Margo that stood under the dappled shade of the apple tree – it was Enjolras. He was paler than she had ever seen him, drawn and tired-looking, but he held himself ramrod straight, one arm tucked across his body in an unconscious pose of protection. This was not the man who had saved her from an alleyway nearly a year ago, and neither was this the cold stranger who had refused her and rejected her in the rain and the blood. This man looked tired and broken and lost: like Atlas bent low under his load, like Prometheus chained to his rock, like Icarus plummeting towards the sea while the wax of his wings fell around him like molten tears.

For a long moment they simply looked at one another but Aimee soon scrambled to her feet, brushing the soil from the front of her dress.

"You need to sit down before you fall down," she said shortly, gathering her tools back into their basket and walking back towards the house. "I'll go and get us a drink…"

"Aimee, don't," he said, the words seeming to choke him slightly. "Don't treat this like it's a normal social visit with drinks and polite inquiries as to our family's health –"

"I'm going to get a drink because I'm thirsty," she cut in. "This isn't for some kind of melodramatic show for you, it's just a hot day and if we're going to talk I want to do so with a drink. My throat still gets sore very easily," she added, feeling a little twinge of satisfaction at his visible wince. She noticed how his eyes had jumped from the faded bruises on her throat to the tender mess of her healing nose – maybe the reminder hadn't been entirely necessary.

She left him in the garden and she prayed every step back towards the house. It was something she had taken to doing more in recent days. It was the last thing she remembered doing in the dark pit of the cellar while the earth fell apart above her. It was what she had spent many hours doing as she healed, both in body and in spirit, looking for guidance on how to continue with her life when everything had been taken from her. Even in her anger she had prayed, hands shaking in rage where they gripped the back of the pew in the little church down the street as she internally screamed at her Heavenly Father, demanding an explanation, an apology, a solution. Now, as she took the tray of drinks from Margo, weakened arms trembling a little with the effort, she prayed for strength to get through this and to do the right thing.

Back out in the garden Enjolras jumped to his feet as if to take the tray from her but hesitated, hovering uncertainly as if not sure whether his aid would be wanted or rejected. In the end they both sat without touching the other, the width of the table, and so much more than that, separating them.

Aimee took a drink and set the cup down purposefully, noting how Enjolras did the same as if sensing that the moment was upon them.

"I'm going to talk and you're going to listen," she said bluntly, keeping her eyes firm. "Understand?"

A weary acceptance that bordered on misery settled in his eyes as he nodded and Aimee set her jaw.

"I'll begin at the beginning shall I?" Taking one more drink she braced her folded arms on the table and began to talk.

A/N All shall be revealed in the next chapter – Aimee's past, all about her parents, why The Patron was after them, and what she is going to do next. Please review and stay tuned!

Until next time mes amis!

Libz xxx