The morning came and they fought. They fought body to body, hand to hand, with pistol-shots, sabre-thrusts, bare fists, from above and below, from all quarters, the roof of the house, the windows of the tavern, the vent holes of the cellers into which some had slipped. They were one against sixty.

Enjolras watched as Bossuet, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Joly were all killed in quick succession, and then as Combeferre was pierced by three bayonet thrusts while picking up a wounded soldier. his last death delivered a large blow upon Enjolras' heart, but still he fought. There was no time to grieve his friends, and they had died honorably.

To every man upon this earth,

death cometh soon or late

but every man may give his life

for something good and great.

And how can man die better

than in facing fearful odds

for the ashes of his fathers

or the temples of his gods.

Enjolras smiled slightly at that thought. He alone was unscathed, but it was not because he was trying to spare himself. He put himself in the line of fire as much as all the others had, but it seemed that fate would spare him for a later time.

When most of his men were dead, Enjolras called to the few remaining men and they entered the café.

"We must sell our lives dearly!" Enjolras said as the door was secured. They nodded at his words and seemed unafraid. "Let us go upstairs!" he cried as the soldiers scaled the barricade and came towards the tavern. The men obeyed and hacked away at the stairway.

The door burst open and Enjolras breathed heavily along with his fellows. There was silence for a moment before the sound of terrible fire. All those around him fell, and in a moment, Enjolras alone was standing.

As he stood there, he cast his eyes around. They fell upon a form, slumped upon a table. It was Grantaire. Anger burned inside the Greek god's chest. This man was asleep as their friends fought and died for freedom. This coward hid and drank and slept as the battle roared in the distance. Enjolras knew martyrdom was not the right course for all. If all men died martyrs, who would be there to rise up again? Who would be there to live in a better world?

Grantaire, however, was not one of those to live on in a better world. The man was not alive, but he would never die. He was in limbo already though his heart continued to beat.

His hateful thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the half-broken stairs.

"He's the leader!"

"Shoot me," said Enjolras, flinging away the remains of his weapon. He folded his arms defiantly and offered them his chest. He was unafraid.

"I feel as if I'd be shooting a flower." A member of the National Guard commented and lowered his weapon. Enjolras regarded him sternly but did not speak.

A sergeant called, "Take aim!", but an officer intervened.

"Wait," he said. "Would you like to be blindfolded?" his voice was surprisingly kind.

"No." Enjolras replied without hesitation or fear.

"Is it really you who killed the artillery sergeant?" The man asked again, unable to believe this beautiful youth had committed such a crime.

"Yes." Came the answer.

"Take aim!" the order was repeated.

"Long live the Republic! I am one of them!" Grantaire had risen to his feet. Enjolras looked at the figure in wonder and confusion. He could see the blazing light of battle, which the cynic had taken no part in, shining in his eyes.

"Long live the Republic!" Grantaire repeated and walked steadily across the room to stand beside Enjolras. Enjolras watched him and could see the drunkenness was gone. The man was sober and was taking a stand for the Republic and for the cause. As impossible as it seemed, it was so, and Enjolras was truly shocked for the first time in his life.

"Might as well kill two birds with one stone." Grantaire said; and then, turning to Enjolras, he added gently. "If you don't mind."

In a single graceful movement, Enjolras clasped his hand and smiled. The cynic returned the smile, but neither one had finished when the volley rang out.