At first there was nothing but white, blinding white no matter which way he moved, and Enjolras thought that he had died for good. He could feel himself breathe and move; he could touch his person, and feel the solid mass that was himself. Was this death? He couldn't be sure. And yet he felt utterly calm within his confusion, except there was something there, masked behind the tranquility he felt. It made his blood rush and pound, but he could not distinguish the feeling. Then, faint at first, and then louder and louder until his head began to ache, a high-pitched buzz rang in his ears. Seconds passed to minutes, and he cringed, the ringing rendering him immobile. But then, that buzz slowly gave way to a mild, bearable ring, and the endless white slowly ebbed too. Enjolras blinked and the white misted to reveal his surroundings. Broken bits of furniture, wood, and debris created a wall at his right. Men clamored before him, fear in every expression, and a rifle in hand. A loud blast could be heard despite the ringing in his ears, and the far end of the barricade exploded in a burst of fire, smoke, and screams. The ringing faded entirely as two men tore through the smoke that clouded the opposite end. They ran to him, their faces bloody, and one man's eye teared blood, closed shut. They were shouting at him, that much Enjolras knew as he watched as their mouths moved, struggling to hear whatever they were saying.
"Chief!" The man sounded leagues away.
Enjolras's head hurt. His ears hurt. Behind his eyes hurt. His body was cold as he glanced down at himself, his chemise and overcoat soaked with blood. There was a pistol in his hand, and he remembered where he was.
"Enjolras!" Combeferre screamed.
He snapped his head to look at the terrified man before him. It was Courfeyrac who stood beside him, cupping his bloodied eye.
"What do we do?" Combeferre struggled to conceal the panic from his voice. "The barricade's been breached!"
A sudden anger swelled within him, something that had been laying there, Enjolras sensed, within the confusion, before the white. He clutched the pistol, gritting his teeth.
"Take as many of them as you can," Enjolras said.
National Guard poured through the dispersing smoke, shouting and cursing, rifles raised.
"Vive la France!" Enjolras roared with a wild fury.
One by one he watched his friends drop like flies, and wrath and guilt, grief and shame overwhelmed his senses. He did not see the man that raised his rifle to him. He did not hear the fired bullet that would pierce him. All he knew was his rage and a wild desire for death.
White enveloped him again briefly, until darkness returned to reign. He awoke then to the mist and the earth and the garden, the Doll standing before him beside the tombstone.
"Welcome home, Good Hunter." She said as he rose to his feet.
He stared at her for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose, his mind regressing back to the time before the Hunter's Dream.
He turned to glance at the tombstone and the messengers that appeared before it. "I remember everything," he muttered in near disbelief.
"Do you?" The Doll asked calmly.
He glanced back at her. "I remember the barricade. I remember Les Amis, my friends, all of our talks of freedom around the tables of the Café Musain. I remember life before the revolution. I've remembered it all since my first death. But I remembered fragments that were not entirely clear. But this time it is different. Every memory I can call back is clear and vivid, as if it only happened yesterday. And still, there is something more."
He should have felt happy, pleased to know unclouded truth. But he could not shake the looming dread and anger that encased his heart. And the Doll remained as serene as the mist as she stared back at him. Her dark eyes were void of inquisition or expression, but Enjolras could not take notice as he began to frown, the muscles in his face tightening.
"I remember… Pain. Pain on every face of my friends as I led them to their deaths. There had always been an empty blank... I hadn't remembered, not truly, the events that transpired at the barricade. There was a piece of me that hoped… That they lived. But now I know, that hope was only a guilt ridden dream. I sent them to their deaths. I murdered them. They are dead. But…"
Enjolras paused, struggling to find the words to describe exactly what he recalled. It was there, on the tip of his tongue, but he could not scrape it passed his teeth. He did not really know what it was that he felt. But he needed to speak, to free his mind of the burden.
He spoke slowly, "In that moment, I was so overcome that my will to fight and yearn to die mixed. I sacrificed my life for the revolution… For the people of France. I can't help but feel it was all for nothing. I abhor myself for all I have done and all that I have failed to accomplish."
He looked back at the Doll, his frown twisting to irritation and confusion. "Why am I not dead?"
"Do you remember the transfusion of blood?"
Enjolras tilted his head in recollection. "I remember lying on my back. I remember a man and a needle. But nothing after until I woke up here."
"It has yet to be completed." The Doll said. "Blood and life flows through you now. But barely. Your mind is not ready to awaken. Each death in the Waking World, in the Hunter's Nightmare has granted you insight. But it is not enough."
Enjolras's expression hardened, remembering her words as he looked at her. "Insight is not enough. I must find the source of the scourge of beasts, is that it? 'Lest the night carry on forever.'"
She nodded. "Your pain, your suffering has caused your mind to come undone. It is why you are here. You must leave this dream but only after you've discovered the root of madness."
Enjolras glanced at the headstone and muttered, "The source of the scourge." He took a step towards the slab of stone. As he was about to touch it, he expected to hear her gentle voice guiding him off as she always did, but instead her hand clasped at his wrist. He paused, straightening as he glanced back at her. Her eyes, behind two strands of raven hair, shined then, her features soft, lined with grief. He then noticed the scarf he had given her about her neck. His lips parted, unsure of what to say, but wishing to rid her of such a horrid expression that somehow seemed to suit her so well. A doll borne of melancholy. He hated it, missing her smile.
"The messengers have told me about your Paris. About Patria, and your love." The Doll's voice was a near whisper. "But, do you love your creation? I am a doll, created by your grieving mind. Would you ever think to love me?"
Enjolras's blood chilled. He swallowed, unable think of any sort of reply.
She smiled, gentle and understanding despite the tears in her eyes. "Of course, I do love you. Isn't that how you made me?"
A messenger grabbed Enjolras' wrist, forcing his hand to the headstone. Her solemn expression was the last he saw as his world vanished, her voice in his ears, and the Hunter's Nightmare surrounded him. He braced himself, glancing about the minister's clinic, suddenly wanting for the Dream. Combing his fingers through his hair, he hissed out a sharp sigh. He could return to the Hunter's Dream, to the home within the madness. But, as he leaned against the wall of the clinic, he found himself immobile. His heart was heavy, heavier than he originally knew. Was it his friends or the revolution, or France, or perhaps was it all of it that trapped his heart in a sepulcher of boundless grief and ire? No, there must be something else. But what, then, if he remembered everything? He rummaged through his mind's eye, thinking back to the reality he knew and the Hunter's Nightmare. But none of it made sense. None of it ever had, so why linger now? With great effort, he ignored the emotions that festered at his heart. Finish the job and be done with it. Escape the Nightmare and awaken. Escape and live.
Enjolras left the clinic and followed the streets back to graveyard. As he ran up the stairs and passed the body of the Nation Guardsman, he could hear the clang of metal, grunts and curses and manic laughter, and there in the graveyard Feuilly was engaged in a furious fight with Grantaire. Feuilly, with his curved daggers in hand, was swift enough to dodge Grantaire's heavy attacks with his axe, but due to the range of the axe, Feuilly could not get close. Enjolras ran for his friend, meandering in and out of the graves that stood in his way. Grantaire then swiped at Feuilly's feet which caused Feuilly to lose his footing, and he fell back. Just as Grantaire raised his axe to strike, Enjolras was behind him. He struck him with a visceral attack, the hidden blade at his wrist digging into Grantaire's back, piercing through muscle and bone. Grantaire dropped to his knees, screaming out in pain. Enjolras tore the blade to the left, cutting across his back before ripping the blade from his body and kicking him to the ground. Feuilly rolled out of the way as Grantaire collapsed to the ground.
"That wasn't necessary of you." Feuilly said as he held his side. Enjolras offered his hand and Feuilly took it, groaning as he stood. "But you have my thanks, Chief."
Enjolras smiled at him. "Yes, from down there, you looked like to be managing well of things."
Before Feuilly could respond, he saw as Enjolras did, Grantaire's body shift. They turned and looked at Grantaire who now stood upright, his yellow eyes wild and blood dripping from his smiling lips.
"Mes amis," He rasped, "I've taken my blood just as you."
And then that smile turned to a scowl as a thin line of crimson seeped from his mouth. He tightly gripped his axe, and Enjolras flicked his wrist, elongating his saw cleaver.
"Let's make this quick," Enjolras said.
Feuilly hissed, "With pleasure."
Grantaire roared out in frustration and charged, twisting his body and swinging his axe, and both Enjolras and Feuilly rolled out of reached. Grantaire turned on a pivot, his body shifting as he lifted his axe again to strike at Feuilly, and Enjolras went again to hit him at his back. But Grantaire was ready for this, and so swiftly did he turn to slash at Enjolras, that he was surprised and unprepared. The blade of the axe bit into his side as Enjolras jumped back. He hissed as he pressed his hand to the wound, falling onto one knee. While Grantaire was distracted, Feuilly deftly clipped his Achilles' tendon with his dagger, and Grantaire shouted out in indignation, swinging his axe again and again furiously. Feuilly, seeing his opening, rolled through the wide swings, and on one knee, plunged both daggers into Grantaire's stomach, slicing down. Grantaire groaned out, kicking Feuilly away from him with enough force that broke his nose, throwing him again on his back.
Grantaire stepped back, reaching for a vile of blood he held on his belt.
"Grantaire." Enjolras said, stepping in front of him, giving them enough space away from Feuilly.
He growled. "I'll kill you again and again and again! I'll paint the moon with your blood."
Enjolras watched as Grantaire realized that although he hadn't the time to heal his wounds, Enjolras too did not use his own blood vial. The wound at his side oozed blood just as the wounds Grantaire received. Enjolras was willing to risk his life on the hope of one successful blow. If he failed it could very well endanger Feuilly's life. Grantaire grinned at this and took his axe in both hands. Leaping off one foot, he charged, and Enjolras stood on the balls of his feet, ready. When Grantaire came in close, their bodies an arm's length apart, the axe slicing through the air, Enjolras fired his pistol. At such a close distance, the bullet pierced through Grantaire's chest and out his back. Enjolras dogged the swing of the axe as Grantaire stumbled forward, gasping. Enjolras then took the few steps back to Grantaire, and before the beast could move, Enjolras buried the blade of his gauntlet deep into Grantaire's chest. His yellow eyes widened, his mouth agape as dark red gushed out. Enjolras held him still and watched as Feuilly approached Grantaire from behind. He presented both blades to the flesh of the beast's throat, dug them deep and slashed open his throat. Blood spewed from him, and Enjolras relinquished his hold on him and both he and Feuilly watched as Grantaire crumpled to the floor.
They panted in unison, and Enjolras did not meet Feuilly's gaze as he bent down and snatched the blood vials off the corpse at his feet. He handed them to Feuilly who shook his head.
"Keep them Chief. You need them more than I."
"Feuilly, you need them just as I do."
"I've taken mine. Go on." Feuilly replied as he transformed his duel blades into one.
Enjolras's jaw tightened, a slight line forming at his forehead. But he was in no mood to argue. He injected one into his thigh, feeling the warmth of its effects as the blood coursed through him. He pocketed the others. "I'm only holding them for you."
Feuilly said nothing and proceeded to walk through the graveyard to the opposite end. Enjolras followed behind him until the cool light of a newly sprouted lantern caught his attention. Within that light, Enjolras was reminded of the Doll, until Feuilly called him over. He looked over at his friend and abandoned the lantern, walking across the graveyard to Feuilly. The gate on that side blocked their way, and as Enjolras gripped the bars. Just as he was about to pry open the gate, Feuilly's head snapped back, his eyes wide. He looked as if a ghost had kissed him.
"Do you hear that?"
Enjolras blinked, uncertain. "Hear what?"
Feuilly looked back at him and paused before shaking his head. "It's nothing."
"Feuilly?"
"Let us continue." He proceeded to force the bars apart.
Enjolras stared at him for a moment, wondering if he should press the matter. He then helped push the gate open, listening to the clanking and moaning of the metal. They abandoned the graveyard and the corpses within it and proceeded through the alley, passing multiple corpses of the National Guard.
"How much do you remember now?" Feuilly asked.
"I remember everything," Enjolras replied.
"Oh, do you?" They walked out of the alley and into the open street. "Well that's a pleasant surprise. I was under the assumption that there were still bits and pieces missing. Glad to see your wits are intact, truly." He then halted his walked and Enjolras along with him.
"Do you still wish to uncover the secrets of the Nightmare?" Feuilly said. "You know as much as I that blood has a part to play in this."
"The blood minister's journal told as much." Enjolras added.
"Right, yes. But there is much more. You were drawn to Nightmare thanks to your inability to handle the secret."
"And you know where I can find the source?" Enjolras pressed, mildly irritated with his friend's dance with words.
Feuilly grinned.
"Climb the Café Musain and kill Éponine. She hides the real secret."
