Hi everyone.

Yes, I know I killed her, and yes I know that this is basically a filler chapter, but I do love you. There are only three or maybe 4 chapters left of this story, and I am working on development for the prequel, which is coming soon!

I have almost no time right now for a full chapter, but I wanted to give you something.

Love you all! :)

-CM

Enjolras looked up, tears coursing his cheeks. He screamed in agony, staring at her, in his arms, cold.

He couldn't believe that she was gone.

There was noise all around him, policemen were running at them, handcuffs ready, his Amis were fleeing, but he heard nothing. The world was silent but for his grief.

He didn't know how long he stared at her, growing stiff in his arms, before there was a tap on his shoulder. He turned his head to see Combeferre, his right hand, telling him something, but he did not hear. Slowly, the world came back into focus. "Enjolras, you have to leave her. We can get her later, but we are going to be arrested if we stay. We need a vantage point, a place from which to fight. You heard her, you can't abandon us now! We need you! I know you loved her, but she's gone, she doesn't need you any more. Stay with us. I'm sorry, but you have to leave her. We can remember her."

He spoke then, and his voice sounded strange, even to himself. "We can avenge her."

Slowly, he lowered her broken body to the roof of the car, kissing her forehead and lightly jumping down. A man sprinting through the crowd with a gun and handcuffs pulled him to his senses. "The leader!" the policeman shouted into a radio. "I have visual!"

"They went to the Corinthe," he heard Combeferre say.

They ran.

Somehow, the two escaped through the crowd and sprinted down the street to the wine shop, where about fifty of his best and brightest were gathered. "Angels!" he shouted, running up. "Those of you who are not my personal allies, go back to the square. Gather as many volunteers as you can and divide into groups. Choose leaders. Form barricades in easily defensible areas. Fight. You all have my phone number?"

Many of the Angels, whom he did not know, nodded. "Good. You report to me. Angels, out!"

His Amis, his core group of people, were the only ones that stayed. There were fourteen of them, and they began gathering spare furniture nearly immediately, piling it in front of the Corinthe. Enjolras devoted himself wholly to the cause, finding it took his mind off of other, less pleasant thoughts. In a few short hours, a formidable barricade was built. Enjolras raised his tattered red flag, the one now stained with Eponine's blood, a symbol of their sacrifice.

They waited.

Night was coming all too soon, and Enjolras had no way to figure out the enemy's move. Was there even an enemy? A part of him, the terrible part, hoped there was. The kind part? Well, he wasn't really sure. That part seemed to have vanished earlier in the day, along with most of his heart.

"I need a volunteer!" he called out, having made up his mind. "Someone who can find out their plan and when they will attack!"

An older man almost immediately got up, stating all the reasons that he should be chosen. Enjolras, not in the mood, handed him a handgun and pointed him towards the city center. He was gone in an instant.

A small, choked sob pulled him out of his musings. He looked over to see Gavroche, brave young lad as he was, huddled in an upturned wardrobe, sobbing.

"Gav?" he asked gently. "Are you okay?"

"She was my sister, and now she's gone." The small boy turned his head away, sobbing. Enjolras felt a stray tear escape his eye, and he found a bottle being pressed into his hand. It was Grantaire, extending him a bottle. "Drinking always helps my problems go away."

"Because they're not big enough to warrant grief over. I'm sorry, Grantaire, but I don't want to talk, or drink, or do anything right now." He retreated into the wine shop, going on to the top floor where there was a large window and the only remaining table and chair. He sat down, staring at the stars appearing in the darkening sky.

"There's a grief that can't be spoken. My pain... goes on and on."

For the first time, he saw the rashness of his acts. Looking at his friends, his precious Amis, he knew. Did he really value all their lives below a madcap idea about how to better a country? They could bvery likely all die by dawn's light.

He sat, musing, for hours, wondering at life and the frailty of it. Why must life end so fast? Would he really sacrifice everything he held dear for a chance at a better life?

He saw the spy return, darting up the street, and he made his choice. It was freedom, or nothing. The Amis would fight to the death.

And he didn't know whether he wanted that death or not.