A/N: Thank you for continuing to read! I hope you enjoy this chapter despite the fact that it may very well break your heart. Sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes, I got my wisdom teeth out and I'm a little fuzzy on pain meds.

Éponine and Courfeyrac placed Enjolras as gently as possible onto the bed when they arrived back at the apartment. They sat at his bedside, helplessly, not knowing how to help. Mercifully, Joly arrived rather quickly after them with all of his medical supplies.

"The battle is over," he announced triumphantly, "The National Guard surrendered!" Despite this positive statement, there was great sorrow in his eyes.

"What is it?" Courfeyrac whispered, seeming afraid to hear the answer.

"Not all of the amis made it," Joly responded, his eyes cast downwards.

"Who?" Éponine breathed. She didn't need to form the entire question in order for him to understand that she wished to know who had perished at the barricade.

"Feuilly, Bahorel, Lesgles, Jean Prouvaire," he listed off, "We're not sure about Marius. His body wasn't accounted for; he must have gotten away."

They all went silent. Joly went to work on Enjolras, removing the musket balls from his ravaged skin. Éponine gripped his unconscious hand and winced on his behalf with the removal of each bullet and subsequently each stitch that pulled his torn flesh back to its former position. There were eight gunshot wounds in total that had pierced his upper body. It was nothing short of a miracle that all of his vital organs appeared to have remained in tact.

When Joly was finally finished, Courfeyrac brought in a pale of warm water and a cloth. The men left the room as Éponine dunked the cloth into the water and wrung it out before using it to clean the blood from Enjolras' skin. She gently wiped around his cuts to reveal purple bruised skin underneath. It was hard to look at his formerly smooth and flawless chest now transformed into a ravaged and scarred expanse of discolored skin. She felt so much raw emotion inside of her, but her eyes were dry and sore and out of tears. As she washed the last of the blood and dirt from his pale face, she dropped the soiled cloth back into the dark red water and applied bandages to his wounds as Joly had instructed before sitting back in the chair at his bedside with a heavy sigh. He was so still, unflinching in his unconsciousness. His skin was unusually pallid and his cheeks seemed more sunken in than usual. Despite his rough appearance, his face was more relaxed than she'd ever seen it, even in sleep, which caused him to look much younger. There has no emotion in his face like there would be if he were dreaming; she wondered if he would ever wake up fro, his deep cataleptic slumber.

That night she slept curled up awkwardly in the chair at his bedside. The other surviving amis had converged on the apartment during the night and she awoke to a room full of filthy, beaten up men fast asleep in various positions on the floor. There was a somber mood throughout the day. No one seemed to want to talk about the events that took place at the barricade or the fate of their leader lying lifelessly in the next room. Éponine only left his side when she had to. She didn't want him to wake up alone and worried about what happened to himself and his revolution.

The first day following the rebellion was lackluster, but went by fairly quickly. It was the next two days that seemed to slow down to a near halt. Nothing had changed with Enjolras' condition. Though Éponine pleaded with Joly and Combeferre to figure out how to wake him, there was no way to know if or when he would ever wake up or if he would still be his old self when he did. It was the unknowing that caused her so much discomfort. Gavroche had died instantly with the shot and though she was still grieving him, she knew he was safe now and would never go hungry or have to spend another night alone or afraid. Somehow Enjolras' heart was still beating, his lungs still filled with air slowly, but rhythmically. He was shielded from pain now, but what would the recovery be like if he woke up? He was such a stubborn and independent man, it would be impossibly hard for him to lay in bed while others catered to him. And he would be in so much pain. Not just physically –though in that form it would be immense- but also emotionally. His rebellion was successful, but his friends had died. Though they made the decision on their own to risk their lives for their worthy cause, Enjolras would still blame himself for their unfortunate fate. He would never forgive himself for leading the charge to their deaths and would be overcome with guilt, thinking that it should have been him who died.

Somehow, in the tense apartment, Éponine made an unlikely friend in Grantaire. He was cynical and typically drunk, but he cared for Enjolras as much as she did. He was emotionally wrecked that he only survived the battle because he drank himself into a stupor and was passed out safely inside the café for the majority of the revolution. He wasn't drinking now though, as he kept reminding, repeatedly stating that he was "painfully sober". He would never admit it aloud, but Éponine knew he felt guilty that he wasn't there for Enjolras, especially when he was injured. It was the reason he was no longer drinking; he wanted to be sober when Enjolras woke up and he didn't want to miss another crucial moment because of alcohol.

Éponine found she rather liked Grantaire. She had always found him amusing the way he drunkenly argued with Enjolras and seeming pleased with himself when he got him so worked up that his face was red and he was yelling at him from across the room. Knowing that Enjolras had always thought of him as something of a nuisance didn't matter to her. He was quite clever and witty even when drunk, and they formed a quick bond after talking at Enjolras' bedside.

On the third day following Enjolras' injury and the end of the rebellion, Éponine was urged by Combeferre to leave his bedside to bathe and eat. Assuming there would continue to be no change in his condition, she allowed herself to be persuaded for a short period. She had to admit, she was rather filthy and her stomach was grumbling continuously.

Submerged in hot water, she felt her muscles finally relax as much as possible given the situation. The water around her became red due to the dried blood she was covered in belonging both to her and Enjolras. She scrubbed her skin harshly, no longer wanting any reminder of his brutal condition. As she was toweling off afterwards she heard Joly's voice shouting her name. Knowing it had to be about Enjolras, she tugged a clean dress on over her head as quickly as she could and ran out the bathroom door.


"Joly?" a tired, raspy voice whispered. Joly spun around and saw Enjolras' eyes slightly open beneath droopy lids, a look of confusion on his face.

"Éponine!" Joly hollered out the door and quickly returned to Enjolras' side. "How are you feeling?" He pulled a notebook out of his pocket to jot down his friends condition.

"Terrible," he muttered, still struggling to keep his heavy eyelids from closing. His head was aching, but even more agonizing were the several sharp, searing pains across his upper body. He tried, but had no recollection of what had happened to put him in this situation. Had the amis first rally somehow become a riot? "What happened?"

Joly grew nervous that Enjolras didn't appear to remember being shot. "You hit your head," he said cautiously, "What is the last thing you remember?"

"The rally we just held. The first of many I assume," he muttered, obviously thinking Joly's question absurd. "Rather disappointing turnout, we must figure out how to spread our message to more people on the street if we're going to acquire the necessary support for our revolution. Did it turn into a riot? Is that how I was injured?"

"No, there was no riot," he said, unsure of how to explain to his friend that he had apparently lost some of his memory.

"How long have I been unconscious?" He hoped whatever injury he had incurred wouldn't prevent him from continuing to plan. The amis needed his guidance, he had to get to the café.

"Three days. Do you know what the date is?"

"Well the rally was September 3rd. So, September 6th?"

Joly sucked in a breath. If the last thing Enjolras remembers happened nine months ago not only did he not remember the revolution, but he wouldn't even know who Éponine was. As soon as this horrible thought donned on him, the young woman in question burst through the door. Her face immediately lit up and a huge smile pulled up the corners of her mouth when she saw Enjolras' open eyes. She ran to his bedside and tenderly cupped his tired face in her hands. "I can't believe you're awake," she murmured, tears falling soundlessly down her cheeks. "I was so worried about you. My life would be over if you died." She placed a soft kiss on his forehead, but Enjolras pulled back looking disgruntled.

"Éponine…" Joly started softy, unsure of how to tell her that the man she was in love with and engaged to marry had no memory of her. But Enjolras beat him to it.

"Excuse me mademoiselle, but I don't appreciate being kissed by perfect strangers," he said, his tone almost rude. He eyed Éponine disdainfully as a look of total shock took over her face.

"Stranger?" she cried, taking a step back as if he had slapped her across the face.

He stated very clearly as if explaining something to a young child, "I have no idea who you are."

A/N: Told you the agony wasn't over yet. I'm sorry I killed a bunch of them, but it had to be done! You were warned this was a happy story. PLEASE REVIEW!