A/N: I like this chapter more than the first one. This story might turn out OK.

P.S. There is NO Danielle/Musichetta slash. NONE. They're just incredibly grief-stricken and need someone to hold on to. And also: my Ma'am Hucheloup is a very level-headed woman; she just doesn't want to leave her home. I don't remember what happened to her in the book, but I really don't care.Capish? Capish.

Bodies. In a pile. Everywhere. And silence. Just the sound of a woman sobbing over a body. It smells terrible, rotten, metallic blood-stench, the smell of death and tears and fear. You can smell the fear-sweat, even now, four days after.

And I see no golden-haired boy, no blue-eyed brother. In fact, I see no light-haired man at all, save for a boy not much older than me, thrown over the barricade as though he had been shot on the other side and tossed over here after the battle.

I wade through the bodies, trying not to retch at the smell, and reach the fair-haired one. It's one of Etienne's friends, the poet. He was so nice. Oh, what did they call him?

Jehan. That's it. They called him Jehan. His eyes are open and unseeing, his face pale, devoid of blood. And it dawns on me that they're dead. They're all dead. Really and truly dead.

I wish I was like my brother, and could not cry. But I am me, and I am emotional. So the tears fall, sliding down my face onto Jehan's bloody waistcoat. I kiss the boy's forehead, and stare at his pocket. In it is a small piece of paper.

Jean Prouvaire

"Jehan"

Born 10 October 1811

Died 5-6 June 1832

"I lived.

I died.

Who is to know which is more important?"

Obviously, it is what is to go on his gravestone, or so he hopes. I remember to get every one of these men a gravestone. I certainly have the money.

"Were you his mistress?"

I jump. It's the woman who had been sobbing. Her voice is still teary, her dark hair mussed. I turn to her and she starts and blushes.

"Oh, Ma'moiselle Enjolras. I'm sorry—"

"How did you know it was me?"

She laughs slightly, but it's a shaky laugh. I'm surprised she even can laugh. "Well, for starters, you look just like him." Then she holds out a hand. "Musichetta Lamont."

"Danielle Enjolras. Enchanté, Musichetta. Why are you here?"

Her face clouds. "Laurent. Laurent Joly. She points to a frail body over by the shop. I was his mistress—no. I was his fiancée. We were going to get married." She holds up her left ring finger. A plain band shines on it. "But then—he had to go and get himself killed—" She bursts into tears again, and I hug her. I don't even know her, but we have a bond. We lost our closest friends, and whether they be lover or brother, that's what they really are. Friends.

She murmurs words like "Damn him" and "Enjolras" and "true love" and "oh, Laurent, you idiot!" and other things I can't quite catch, and it's not long before I'm sobbing too, mourning my brother and the poet and her Joly and all those people who never lived to get married or graduate from college or anything.

Finally she steps away. "I'm sorry. It's just—you know."

I nod. "I know."

And then an old woman steps out. She walks with a cane, and says, "Danielle Enjolras?"

I nod.

"I'm Ma'am Hucheloup. I sent you the letter about your brother."

"Where is he?"

"He's upstairs. I think you should see him."

We walk upstairs, leaving Musichetta down to mourn. And he's there, standing against a wall.

Standing? Is he alive? He's covered in bloodstains.

I walk forward, and then I see the holes in his body. Eight of them. Oh, God. No, he's dead. He can't be dead! I won't let him!

"Etienne?"

Ma'am Hucheloup walks forward, and with a surprisingly strong hand grabs my shoulder. "Come, Danielle. This isn't good for you."

I push her hand off my shoulder and continue till I'm standing in front of him, looking into his lifeless eyes, now a dull blue-gray from death.

I grab his shoulder.

Half my mind is saying, Let him go, Dani. You know he's dead. He died four days ago, but more of it tells me, He's your ageless brother. He's not dead. Of course not, he was going to live forever, remember?

I shake the shoulder. "Etienne? Etienne? Wake up! Stop joking with me!" I grab the other shoulder and shake them both, crazily. "Etienne! STOP PLAYING! Wake up! Wake up…."

I don't know how long I stand there, yelling at him, but the sadness and the early trip tires me, and I slide to the ground, sobbing more than Musichetta was.

My brother…my brother…he's dead.

Dead.