Enjolras jolted as he awoke, screaming out in dread as searing, fiery pain tore through him at his back and through to his chest. He huffed and panicked, touching the spot that burned his chest, looking for a wound that was not there. He breathed through his nostrils as he attempted to calm himself. He was not dead, unhurt, in fact. He knew this, and the pain faded. Blood no longer soaked his clothes, and any holes in his attire were mended as if all was well, and he could start again. His body tingled with relief that left him weak. He struggled to rise, looking about the gardens of the Hunter's Dream. Death had brought him back again, and he grew more relaxed at the sight of the Doll standing by that same large headstone. He took steps toward her, and as he walked, his head began to burn as his chest had. His eyes widened in sudden fear as the throbbing and the burning, far greater than any other pain, ran through his skull, rendering him motionless. He thought then that this pain would kill him too, and he remembered the fight he had just had with the man with the spectacles.

He remembered that face of a dear friend, the name he owned in a time that seemed so far away. "Joly," Enjolras thought. He remembered that genius, that hypochondriac, that dear friend. He remembered Joly's loyalty to him and the rest of his friends that were once called Les Amis. Enjolras remembered a Paris under a tyrannical monarch, and the revolution he was so eager to insight. He could see as clear as day the morning of the funeral of General Lamarque and the battle that ensued that terrible day, the barricade that was built, the lives that were lost. But what of his fate and the rest of Les Amis? Had they survived? He found himself questioning his entire reality, this Hunter's Dream, the Doll, the Waking World and those who lived in it.

"You remember now, don't you Good Hunter," the Plain Doll said.

The burning of his mind faded with her voice, and Enjolras staggered, lifting his hand to touch his temple. "I… I remember." He found himself growing weaker, his knees threatening to give out, but he forced himself to stand, keeping his eyes on the Doll. "Everything. I remember everything."

"Do you?" The Doll returned.

Enjolras, feeling his strength slowly returning, frowned in contemplation. The thought possibly being wrong, of truly forgetting something so important about him—he didn't want to consider it. "I must," he said, swallowing.

Her eyes, Enjolras could see, were laden with sorrow. "Then you know what you must do."

He felt the blood drain from his face, his skin crawling, his bones freezing over at the dreaded thought.

"No. Please." He pleaded, "Surely there is something else to be done!"

Her eyes were his answer, dark eyes filled with grief and regret. "A hunter must hunt beasts. Only then will you be granted insight."

Enjolras's brow creased and he stared down at his feet, curling his hands tighter about his weapons. He knew what was to be done, but the task made him sick.

"How can I kill my friend?" Enjolras asked, looking back at her. "He's my loyal comrade. He trusts me with his life. I cannot betray him. Perhaps there is something I can do, something I can say and he'll remember me too!"

She stepped towards him, her eyes fixed on his, and he thought she would touch him, but such gentleness was unlike her.

"Your friend is not bound to the Waking World. Your friend is of Paris. Of your Paris. The Waking World is ruled by beasts, not humans. The messengers guide me just as they do you, and they have told me. That beast is not your Joly."

Enjolras stared at her and then the headstone, his jaw clenching.

The Doll's expression lightened and mixed with both sadness and encouragement, "Free him from his torment and yourself with him."

Enjolras shut his eyes, biting the inside of his lip. He breathed out a deep sigh before opening them and approached the headstone. His heart in his ears, he touched the stone and returned to the Waking World.

Enjolras ran through Paris, following the same path he took to get to Joly. For the time being, he avoided as much unnecessary conflict as possibly, and when he approached the mob that had not moved from the bonfire, he took much care to avoid detection. He squeezed passed the gate but not without avoiding complete detection. The sentry upon the carriage spotted him before he could make it through and fired, the gunshot startling him so, his heart jumping up to his throat. The bullet hit his thigh, and Enjolras grunted out and held his breath as he squeezed through the gate before the rest of the mob could reach him. He staggered, holding the wound as he ran for the corner of the alley. He puffed and sighed, relieved to have made it, and without hesitation he plunged a blood vial into his thigh, watching as the bullet emerged from his skin. It was forced out completely along with the bits of shrapnel, and the wound healed.

Continuing on, Enjolras entered and exited the bloodied house and passed the body of the little girl. He returned to the Hȏtel National des Invalides and found Joly in his bloodied, faded, tattered clothes standing over the same woman's body. Joly huffed and panted like that of a dog and upon hearing him, turned to face him.

"Joly, it's me." Enjolras entreated.

Joly made no notion of recognition as he raised his saw spear, quickening his footsteps.

"Joly, please." Enjolras's body tingled, adrenaline fueling his veins and muscles all the while his heart began to break.

The fight began anew. Enjorlas was careful to dodge Joly's continues attacks, avoiding the long reach of the spear, waiting for an opening. Though his swings took time, Joly was quick to continue his swipes. But they left him vulnerable, Enjolras saw, for Joly's stamina could not keep up after five hard swings. Timing himself, Enjolras kept out of Joly's reach, waiting for the five passes of the spear, and he then fired. Joly's yellow eyes widened and flashed as the bullet passed through his chest. He staggered just as before, and instead of hesitating as before, Enjolras ran up to him, swinging his cleaver, slicing opening his friend's chest. Blood was torn from him, soaking his clothes and Joly's, and Joly stepped back, growling in fury as he struggled to avoid Enjolras's adamant cuts into his flesh.

"Ahh!" Joly screamed out, falling to his knees.

Enjolras stepped back from him, panting as his lungs burned for oxygen, his muscles aching for reprieve.

"Joly. Joly, it's Enjolras." He tried again. "You must remember me. I don't want to hurt you! Come back, my friend."

His heart hammered furiously in his chest, and he waited as Joly pressed his hand to the large gash at his breastbone. Enjolras could hear low growling, low enough that it only seemed to carry with the wind. And then Joly looked up at him, his spectacles dropping by the irate turn of his head. He stood, relinquishing his spear and held his sides as his growls grew louder. And before Enjolras could breathe, before he found the time dodge the attack, Joly rushed at him.

The man's arms were no longer clothed but covered in thick, long black fur, the sleeves having been torn away. His hands too were covered by that fur, and his fingers had become claws like knives. He swung his arms at him, and Enjolras received deep, long cuts across his abdomen. Enjolras groaned, stepping back to attempt to avoid Joly's ferocious attacks, but Joly was relentless. He carved Enjolras down from his left collarbone to the right of his ribcage, and in his pain and panic, Enjolras swung his cleaver, cutting Joly's furred arm. The beast stepped back and went to rush him again, and he quickly lifted his pistol and shot him. Wherever the bullet pierced, it was enough to get him to stagger, and Enjolras went for a blood vial, plunging it into his thigh.

His wounds were healing, his muscles strengthening, his breathing more eased and regular. But Enjolras could not feel relieved. Joly was running for him. Standing on the balls of his feet, he held his breath, and rolled underneath Joly's arm as he rose to cut him with his claws. Enjolras quickly regained himself and swung at the beast's back, relentlessly attacking him from behind, blood splattering from him. Joly screamed, and Enjolras did not take any chances, digging his cleaver into his friend's body, tearing flesh from bone, clumps of skin and muscle ripping from him and smacking against the ground. And then Joly's screams stopped, and Enjolras watched as his friend collapsed, face down to the ground.

Enjolras heaved, frantically breathing for air as he stood over the body. His limbs shook, and Enjolras looked down at his friend in a beast's body. He shuddered, memories of his dear Joly, the man who plotted and planned the revolution alongside him, the man who pledge such loyalty, such kinship to him out of the love of his heart.

Enjolras sniffed and gritted his teeth as he stared down at Joly's mangled corpse. He closed his eyes, sighing. Beast, he reminded himself. That beast was not his Joly. He opened them again, a light catching his eye. A lantern grew from the ground, cracking open the stone ground to make room for itself, and messengers crowded around it. Enjolras glanced at the body and then back at the lantern. He then turned and walked towards the lantern, unable to look back as he knelt down to touch its ethereal light.