A/N: It's GreenField again..this time it's Empty Chairs at Empty Tables, also from Les Miserables. It's about Thomas Wyatt after the five men that were executed with Anne are dead – George Boleyn, Francis Weston, Mark Smeaton, William Brereton and Henry Norris. Please review. Italics are flashbacks.

It was the first time that Thomas Wyatt had sat at the alehouse table alone.

He sat very quiet, very still. There were still many commoners lurking at tables nearby, but none of the raucous shouts and laughter of his five dearest friends, five men that had been his confidantes, his supporters, his inspirations; his whorehouse companions. Nursing the tankard of ale in hands that trembled, he recalled his meetings with each of them.

George Boleyn, his friend from childhood, had been his first companion to the alehouse. A bright, witty and handsome man who had been a poet also. They had composed many a verse together at this very table, him sitting on that very chair.

Francis Weston and Henry Norris had come across them there one day when looking for a new place to drink and whore, and had soon become part of the select group of men who were talented, courtly and could converse with ease.

Mark Smeaton had been the fourth new companion – he was beneath them, and had at first sat alone, not presumptuous enough to sit at their table, but once they heard him play his lute so beautifully, they encouraged his company, eager to speak with him and learn from him. He put music to some of the little ditties they wrote together, causing much amusement to them and the other regulars.

And finally, William Brereton, a warm hearted and considerate man who adored nothing more than his wife and family, and longed to raise his standing at court. Thomas had known and cared for them all.

There's a grief that can't be spoken,
There's a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables,
now my friends are dead and gone.

Here they talked of revolution,
here it was they lit the flame,
here they sang about tomorrow and tomorrow never came.

He remembered a conversation, many years before...a conversation that he felt had been the start of their deaths coming to them.

"Anne's Queen now, my friends!" George cried, waving his tankard in excitement, sending ale slopping all over the table. Mark chuckled, snatching the tankard from him.

"Calm down, else we shall all be drenched!" he laughed, "And you are sure that she will make change for us?"

"Oh yes" George said firmly, "You see, she has already created the Church of England!"

"The very thing we have longed for" Francis agreed, nodding solemnly, "She has done a great thing for us"

"It is a revolution of the kindest sort!" William proclaimed, "No violence, no pain, no battle. No death. We have succeeded with the help of your good sister alone, and we need fight no more"

"It won't last" Thomas cautioned, "Anne will remain Queen, yes, but we cannot expect to have succeeded so easily! Someone will have to pay the price for our cause, else it is no cause at all"

"Always so glum, Thomas" Henry sighed, pushing more ale towards him, "Drink with us, be merry. Do not pine for Anne, and do not fear our downfall"

"All I am saying is that there will surely be some sacrifice" Thomas said, quite reasonably. George pushed his arm playfully.

"Hush up, Tom, and drink with me! Celebrate!"

From the table in the corner,
They could see a world reborn,
And they rose with voices ringing,
And I can hear them now;
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lonely barricade, at dawn.

They had walked up onto the scaffold, one after the other. He had escaped, but they had not. And he saw it all from the Bell Tower, watched his friends die two days before the woman he had loved all his life. He had watched them all, first George, then Mark, Francis, Henry, William. Women who had known them – their wives or lovers, daughters in one case, screamed and howled from the crowd of eager peasants who were just too bloodthirsty for anyone's liking.

And Thomas had lived. But why? Why had he been spared?

Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone
There's a grief that can't be spoken,
There's a pain goes on and on...

For a moment, as he sat there alone, he saw them once again. He could hear the sounds of their bawdy singing ringing in his ears. He could see the ghost of George, rocking on his chair, tankard in the air, the whores fluttering around him like bees to honey. Of Mark, playing his violin as he followed the song, beaming at the inclusion that he had long wanted, his ungainly hands moving with such grace as would shock anyone. Of Henry, scribbling letters of love to pretty Madge Shelton with help from Thomas himself, desperate to make a good impression on the pretty, buxom lady in waiting. Of William, gazing moodily into his drink and dreaming of his beautiful, kind wife, refusing the gaudy, painted whores that offered him everything for such a low price. And of Francis, chasing after every lady in the place, teasing them and making everyone laugh with his drunken antics, standing on the tabletops to sing at the top of his voice.

They had died for nothing, just like Anne. He had known that there would be deaths, he had said so – but never had he dreamed that they would die, that they would be the ones to leave him.

They had died for their cause, long after they had felt safe and secure, and he had been the one left to live without them, to pick up the pieces after their cruel and unjust deaths.

Why was he still living?

Phantom faces at the window,
Phantom shadows on the floor,
Empty chairs at empty tables where my friends will meet no more.
Oh my friends, my friends don't ask me
what your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will sing no more.