Paris was aflame. Buildings on both sides of the street were torched, and whatever else touched the flaming buildings, corpses, coaches, coffins, burned as well. As Enjolras and Feuilly walked the street, Enjolras stared up at the fires in perplexion and awe. The blaze, yellow, orange, red, and white licked and lapped, but did not consume. Sparks spat from the fire, but no heat emitted. Nothing burned and yet, the fire was very much alive, unending. Enjolras glanced at Feuilly, who paid no mind to the harmless fires. As they walked together, he soon found it easy to ignore the flames that did not burn. In silence, Enjolras pondered the existence of the fire. Perhaps this was another of his mind's tricks, an attempt to cope with whatever madness he experienced in his Paris. Or perhaps it meant nothing at all, the consequence of his broken mind. They walked deeper into the flames of the city together. Stepping over corpses of National Guardsmen and civilians, Enjolras was reminded of the note the messengers had given him. The inferno engulfed this side of the city, but the moon remained high and white.

"Do you remember," Feuilly spoke without passing a glance at Enjolras. "The time before the long night?"

Enjolras stared at him who merely smiled as if his silence was answer enough.

"Ah, I remember none of it. I know nothing but the hunt and the Hunter's Nightmare," said Feuilly.

As they walked, the street before them turned red, blood pooled all about, their footsteps heavy and sticky with blood. The stone street became less and less a street as they walked deeper into the blood that splattered in rings under their feet. Their shadowy forms reflected in the crimson river, a stark contrast to the flames that shined within the ruby waters, and Enjolras hardened himself. He glanced at Feuilly who only looked straight ahead, and Enjolras followed his gaze.

Before them stood a barricade, but this was not the barricade that he was so familiar with within his memories. No, this was not that of his revolution, the one made of the debris and discarded belongings of hopeful citizens. This barricade was of corpses, red, flayed, hollowed corpses piled atop each other. It was the source, it seemed, of the river of blood that flooded the street. As Enjolras stared, his footsteps coming to a halt as Feuilly's did, he blinked in the face of such an unholy scene. He thought perhaps it was the flames that had been playing tricks on his eyes. But the longer he stared, the cold chill of realization ran up his spine, and he clenched his jaw. The corpses, like a giant mass of throbbing flesh, moved. They writhed and swayed, and Enjolras could hear the distinct low moans of agony. They looked at the pair, the last living beings to touch the river of blood, and Enjolras frowned, his nose crinkling in repulsion.

"It's a shame," said Feuilly as he stared ahead at the mound of bodies. "This is all that I know. That while you dream and dream, now more aware than ever of your reality, I am bound to the Nightmare. I know just as well as you. I cannot continue with you."

Enjolras's brow furrowed as he glanced at his companion, unaccustomed to such somber words from him. But it was his last words that made Enjolras's stomach drop with sudden fear.

Feuilly stared on at the barricade, his eyes unblinking as he continued. "You cannot hear it can you? You will soon enough. A bottomless curse."

"Feuilly?"

"Tell the Doll I said 'hello'."

Before Enjolras could think, Feuilly swiftly lifted his arm and jammed the palm of his hand into his jaw, shoving his chin up and Enjolras smacked his teeth together, groaning at the crack of his jaw. Unable to react, his body went into sudden shock as he felt Feuilly plunge the blade within his glove into Enjolras's throat. Feuilly tore the blade from his neck, and Enjolras scrambled, reaching for the hole and pressing his fingers into the flooding blood. As he did, he lost balance, collapsing into the blood drenched street. The colors around him began to fade as he choked, tasting blood both his and not, watching as Feuilly darted from his side towards the barricade. His vision darkened and he failed to call out to his friend, his figure becoming a shadow and from that shadow the darkness crept, engulfed his sight until he died.

Enjolras jolted as he awake, his body stiffening as he reached for his throat and wheezed. He sucked in each breath, feeling his lungs fill with the cool mist of the air. He crawled onto his hands and knees, coughing.

"Good Hunter." He heard the Doll say.

"Feuilly," he muttered.

He did not look at her as he rushed to his feet, calling again for Feuilly as he ran to the headstone. The words "Paris Graveyard" had appeared and eagerly, he touched them. The Hunter's Dream faded and the dark and dismal graveyard stood in its place. Grantaire's body was only a few steps away from the lantern, but Enjolras could not think of the horror of the corpse that lay there. Instead, he ran through the graveyard and into the alley that led him back to the street and the river of blood. He huffed and panted, his heart pounding into his throat, his mind racing with everything and nothing, and all he could think of was getting back to Feuilly.

Blood splashed about, staining his clothing and seeping into his boots as he ran through the blood that drenched the street. He could see the false barricade, and it grew and writhed more and more with each passing step. The horror, the sublime, all of it converging here at the heaping pile of blood and flesh, and what stood behind it, Enjolras could see clearly the large, daunting Café Musain.

Enjolras climbed the barricade, feeling the cold bodies beneath him, their moans and cries of despair echoing in his ears. He reached the top and stood erect, quickly glancing about without failing to notice that both ends of the barricade jutted up against the buildings. Once he went in, it would be too difficult to escape the confines. He disregarded that uncomfortable fact when he spotted the crimson form of his friend laying face up in the pool of blood. He rushed down, stumbling as he went and nearly tripping over a corpse that, by sheer will, lifted itself up to groan in dismay. It watched him as he raced down, the eyeless creature, and Enjolras thought for a moment that it whispered, "Help us."

He reached the bottom with a splash into the blood—the amount of it now was up to his ankles—much more than when he was outside the barricade. He rushed over to Feuilly, his rags soaked in blood, his hood fallen to spy his face. Enjolras went to his knees and took him in his arms and Feuilly's head lolled into the crook of Enjolras's arm. Feuilly's eyes were open, wide and glassed, but he did not see. Enjolras watched as Feuilly's chest shallowly heaved, his breathing labored, and a thick line of blood seeped from his lips. Bone protruded from his skin and pierced through the rags of his legs and forearm. His ribcage was distorted, bones sunken in, and his pelvis was crushed.

Tears stung Enjolras's eyes and he clutched Feuilly tighter. "Feuilly, why?"

He wheezed, struggling to breathe as he rasped, "Don't you hear the bells?"

Enjolras, bewildered by such a question, nevertheless listened for a moment and heard no bells but the sickly sound of Feuilly's breathing.

"Surely… You must hear them now."

Enjolras shook his head. "I hear nothing."

Feuilly winced, groaning out. "They… They've chased me… An echo in my mind. The ringing is clear now… Don't you hear their tolling?"

"Let me get the vials. You'll be all right. You'll live." Enjolras said as he reached for the blood vials on his person.

"What does it matter?" Feuilly returned slowly, his mouth coated slick and red. With what energy he could muster, he halted Enjolras's hand. "You'll be dead… Soon enough. You cannot bear… The weight of your failure… Your grief forever."

"Feuilly—"

"It isn't fair." Tears and blood seeped from him as he gasped for air. "It just isn't fair."

Enjolras felt him as Feuilly breathed his last, his body shuddering through his final exhale. His eyes clouded and glossed, stared up unwatching at the silver light of the moon. Enjolras gasped and huffed, his jaw clenched tight as sobs wrecked through his form, and he shook with horror, rage, and unrelenting anguish. He clutched the broken body of his companion, his friend, and in his grief, every death, every murder of a dear friend broke the walls of his mind.

In his despair, he did not see small sections of the pool beginning to bubble. The tiny bubbles of blood slowly grew to bigger ones that welled and popped and more and more blood began to condense around these three separate sections. And when the blood began to swell and mold did Enjolras take notice, and a feeling of dread loomed over him. Rapidly, the blood began to rise and take form, growing and growing into a solid mass, and the moans of the barricade of corpses grew louder.

"Failures," the mass of bodies said with a collective, breathy hiss. "Living Failures..."

Enjolras, with reluctance, relinquished his hold on Feuilly, and stood to his feet, taking his cleaver and pistol in hand. He watched as the three columns of blood grew a full length taller than him. Blood dripped back into the pool, sculpting themselves to take the form of humans, giant hulking, crimson humans. And the more Enjolras stared and these unholy creatures stared back, Enjolras found his heart dropping like a stone into his stomach. These ghastly monstrosities were those of the rest of his friends.

Enjolras stepped back, feeling himself weaken in the shadows of Bossuet, Bahorel, and Marius Pontmercy. They must have been the ones that crushed Feuilly. They were what destroyed the last friend he had of this wretched nightmare.

He stood in silence as he tightened his grip on his weapons, waiting, watching for any of the three to make the first move. He was grateful, at the very least, that the area of this fight was gracious in space aside from the looming Café Musain and the barricade. He thought then of Feuilly, fighting these monsters on his own, and he swallowed hard the lump in his throat.

Not a sound from them was made and the Failures began to move. They were slower than any beast he had fought, but their long limbs and numerical advantage was not without notice. It was Marius that came at Enjolras first; his body hunched over as he went to swing his arm at Enjolras, but he dodged the attack, rolling passed Marius's strike to reach his legs. He swung his cleaver one, two, three times, and expected the creature to stagger, but instead a bloody, heavy hand slapped him away. The slap though had enough force to send Enjolras flying back, grunting in pain from the strike and landing a few meters away, splashing into the blood and rolling on his side. Enjolras groaned, his body aching as if he had been hit by cannon fire, and he coughed, holding his side. Slowly, he lifted himself up, his head spinning and burning from the pain. But the Failures would not wait for him to recover, and neither could he. He forced himself to move, rushing back to attack Marius. He dodged his attack, another sweeping strike of his arm, his hand a fist as he attempted to crush Enjolras into the ground. Enjolras, in return, swung his cleaver again and again, carving layers of blood away as he tore into Marius's legs. Marius's left leg then buckled, collapsing to one knee, and Enjolras's adrenaline spiked further, eager to bring down one Failure without interference from the others.

But he had miscalculated the speed of the other Failures. One had rushed at him before he could recover from his attacks on Marius. The Failure kicked him, sending him across the pool of blood to smash into ground and slide and hit the wall of the Musain. Enjolras's ears rang loud and piercing, and his vision blurred. His head pounded in agony, his bones, surely broken because nothing less could explain the fire of his blood and horrendous pain that consumed his body. Yelling out as he forced his arm to move, he reached for a blood vial, fighting the pain, and plunged the needle into his thigh. The new blood relieved him, reinvigorated him, and he was able to stand. But this time, the blood failed to rejuvenate his strength and energy, only serving to heal his broken body. He could not have that. He needed all the strength he could muster for this fight. So he took another vial and felt his strength grow and adrenaline overtake him. Growling out, he felt wonderfully inhuman.

The injured Marius was being protected by Bahorel, so Enjolras chose Bousset, who had separated himself from the other two. He stepped to grab Enjolras, but he deftly stepped out of his reach and proceeded to attack Bousset's extended arms before going for his legs. As he attacked, Enjolras was careful to watch Bousset's body and jumped back before Bousset could attack. Panting for breath, Enjolras stepped away, giving himself enough space from the Failures. He waited to see what they would do. Without warning, all three of them let out a screech and rose their arms up to the heavens, standing stock still as they looked up to the moon. Enjolras held his weapons tighter, bracing himself for whatever could happen. Shadows moved over the barricade, across the bloody pool, and touched him. Enjolras expected them to stop at him but they went over him instead and engulfed the Musain too. He then turned his attention to the sky, and clouds of smoke from the unburning fires of Paris stole away the moon.

But the darkness did not stop there. He could still see his hand in front of his face. But within the passing seconds the darkness grew and deepened until he could see nothing but pure black, the endless emptiness, and Enjolras felt his heart drop again. He could see nothing. Did the Failures see him? They must or else they would not have conjured such magic. And what could he do but twist and turn in the dark and hope to spy a flicker of red. But to lose one sense was to heighten another, and Enjolras could hear low clicking echoing in the blind void. They were there and he could hear them and the sloshing of watery blood from heavy footsteps. And then the sloshing quickened and Enjorlas knew what was coming but was too slow to react. Solidity collided with him, knocking him down on his back, and the clicking was louder now, erratic. He could feel them over him; he knew they were there. They could strike and kill him then and there, and he could feel himself panic. Fear took over him and he wished for the light. Feebly he swung his cleaver in hopes of deterring his attackers. Huffing and panting, franticly as a last attempted, he lifted his left arm and fired his pistol blindly, and in that spark, he saw the Failures' shadowed figures. The low clucking became a sharp screech, and Enjolras swung his cleaver, feeling the teeth slice something in the dark. Scrambling to his feet, he pursued his attack, feeling the blade carve and tear, and then the pressure of it stopped entirely.

Enjolras stepped back and waited, listening for any noises the Failures might make. And then the everlasting blackness began to fade like rising smoke. He blinked and the darkness evaporated to allow the moonlight through. In front of him stood Marius who was hunkered over, holding his face. Instinctually, Enjolras charged at him and swing his cleaver into the face of the Failure. The monster did not scream out but gurgled and groaned and so easily did it give to Enjolras's attacks until it finally collapsed at his feet and melted back into the pool.

He then turned his attention to Bahorel and Bousset, more confident and less afraid, and he raised his pistol. In, what seemed to be a moment of courage, Bousset ran at Enjolras, his hand a fist as he moved to attack him. Enjolras fired the pistol directly into Bousset's face, and Bousset moaned and stepped back, his hands clasping his wounded face. Enjolras took the time then to attack him, cutting into him and that did not distract him from the pounding footsteps coming for him. Bahorel went to attack him and Enjolras jumped back, ready.

Bousset lifted himself up and stood beside Bahorel, and Enjolras did not shy away. With each attack on their part, Enjolras dodged and returned with his own. And when came close enough, who happened to be Bahorel, Enjolras again fired his pistol into his face. He gurgled out a shriek and stepped back, but Enjolras meant to finish this. He relentlessly swung his cleaver, digging and carving and tearing layers and layers of blood away until the Failure collapsed and, like Marius, melted back into the pool.

Turning back to Bousset, Enjolras did not waste a moment to close the distance between them. He did not attack carelessly, very much so aware of the power of the Failure's attack despite the dwindled numbers. Death was still in the back of his mind as the battle continued, and that guarded him even as Bousset was crumbling on the ground. His heart racing, he sliced into the Failure again and again until it finally surrendered, dying, and dissolved into the blood of the barricade.

Enjolras panted deep breaths as he tried to recover himself. His body was sore and heavy, and he lolled his head back, closing his eyes in relief. He survived. But in his silence he was reminded of each death at his hands, the death of his friends and guilt did not let him be. All of them were his failures. Perhaps he had hoped this fight would set him free, the weight of his burden lessened now that he had rid them of further suffering. He could not say that it did. But then he remembered Feuilly's proclamation, to kill Éponine. He opened his eyes to look up at the moon, staring at it wondrously before sighing and looking back at Feuilly's corpse. What secret does this Éponine own, this woman that his memories revealed no connection to? Is it possible his memories were not fully restored then as he believed?

He would find out soon enough, he decided, and walked towards the Café Musain. He stood in front of the building, his feet no longer submerged in blood. This Musain of the Nightmare was large and looming, at least six stories high—although he could never be entirely sure—with slender windows and thick columns to support the foundation. Even the door was four feet taller than him. And yet, while the fires had overtaken the other rest of the buildings on this street, the Musain, like the barricade, remained untouched.

He felt small within the shadow the café as a sudden realization that he was to continue alone again dawned on him. But it was not fear that gripped his heart this time. No, for what more did he have to fear now that all of his friends were dead. But the shadow of the Musain was like a warning, he sensed, and he wondered what manner of beast Éponine was, and what else he might find in the café. He couldn't wait. He walked over to the double doors and with both hands on either side, with the strength his body could muster, he forced open the doors. The heavy wood gave and groaned as it opened just enough to allow his entrance, and he walked, into the enveloping dark of the Café Musain.