A/N: So, I made some changes in order to fix some grammatical errors. A special thanks to hollybridgetpeppermint for pointing them out. Hopefully I've fixed all of them. If not, just let me know and I'll do my best to make necessary changes.

Marius didn't know what he had hoped to accomplish by returning to the Musain, but there he stood anyway. As he gazed across the familiar back room, he felt himself give way to his grief. He clutched the doorway for support as his knees grew weak and his eyes filled with tears.

It has been a year. I cannot believe an entire year has passed.

It had indeed been a year, but Marius had been unconscious for most of it, quite near death. The rest of the time had been spent in a flurry of wedding preparations.

Once he regained the use of his legs, Marius crossed the room to sit at the back table. The room was empty, and for the first time that Marius could remember, silent. The voices that used to laugh and shout across the room had been silenced forever.

A ray of sunlight shone through the dusty window. Marius cursed the golden ray as it fell across the table.

How cruel of the sun to shine today! Has it no respect?

It would have been more appropriate were it raining. It had been a year ago when smoke and gunpowder turned the sky black. Instead, the flowers bloomed and the birds sang as if it were any normal, early summer day and not June 6, the anniversary of his friends' deaths.

Not all of them. Bahorel and Jehan died a year ago as of yesterday.

A lump rose in his throat and tears threatened to spill over again. It was hard enough to think of them as a group, but when he thought of each one of them separately, each one of his friends…

No. They weren't exactly his friends, except for Courfeyrac. He had never really been one of Les Amis de l'ABC, but they had been kind, and he had enjoyed their company. It was true that they had often disagreed. In fact, they had disagreed on nearly everything. One disagreement in particular stood out vividly in his memory.

"Buonaparte." he recalled, surprising himself by accenting the 'u', just as Enjolras used to. Marius, being a Bonapartist, never said the emperor's name with a 'u'. At least he used to be a Bonapartist. He wasn't sure what he was anymore.

That is what the argument had been about. Hearing the name "Waterloo" had caused Marius, in a fit of passion, to convey his admiration for Napoleon and his dedication to his late father's belief in Bonapartism.

"Corsica," he had stated, "A little island which has made France truly great."

From across the room, Enjolras answered. He seemed to stare off into space and did not even turn his head as he spoke.

"France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great because she is France."

"God forbid that I should lessen France! But it is not lessening her to join her with Napoleon." That had gotten their attention. Once all eyes were upon him, he continued with renewed enthusiasm to describe the glory of France under the emperor.

"What can be more grand?" he asked.

The answer he received was unexpected and harsh, but it spoke the truth.

"To be free," Combeferre had answered simply before making his exit.

That was when Marius knew that he wasn't really an Ami. He didn't belong with these young men that were so sure and set in their beliefs, while he was sure of nothing anymore.

He hadn't gone to any more meetings of Les Amis de l'ABC after that. He didn't see many of its members again until that day on the barricades. When they welcomed him with smiles, he knew he was forgiven for all past offenses.

They had never really been his friends, but that day on the barricades they had become more. They had become his brothers.

Brothers in arms, brothers in death.

But he hadn't died. Out of all of those courageous young men, why did God see fit to spare him? How many poems would never be published because Jehan didn't have enough time to write them in his short life? How many people died this past winter because Combeferre and Joly were not there to give aide? What did he, Marius, have to offer this poor, wretched world, that he deserved deliverance while these sublime young men did not?

As he gazed across the vacant backroom grief once again swelled in his chest. Marius felt it boil inside him, but this time it was not released with tears. It grew and he began to feel a multitude of things: frustration, helplessness, guilt, but above all he felt anger. At whom he was angry, he did not know, but his friends had died and their hopes and dreams died with them. That infuriated Marius.

"Damn it all!" he swore, an act most unlike him, but he simply could not contain it any longer.

Louis-Philippe was still on the throne. The people were still oppressed. Women were still forced to sell themselves to feed their children, while the Bourgeoisie were busy making arrangements to move to their country villas for the summer. His friends had given all that they could, but nothing had changed.

Marius, once again, found himself reduced to tears.

"My friends," he sobbed into his coat sleeve, "don't ask me what your sacrifice was for." He wasn't sure who he was talking to, but that didn't matter, for he was simply stating the truth. He didn't know how to answer that question, should anyone care to ask, and that nearly ripped out his already aching heart.

His eyes stung as he attempted to regain control and choke back the sobs. The pain was just too much to bear, knowing that he would never see their faces again, never hear their voices.

Their voices…

A memory from the day he left the café struck him quite unexpectedly. It seemed such an odd thing to remember amid his grief and pain. After all, many notable things had happened that day, but the one thing that he had recalled so suddenly was clearer than any of the memories that he had previously attempted to bring forth.

It was a song, a song that Combeferre had sung as he exited the Musain, leaving Marius to speak with Enjolras. Marius had only heard it once, and not very clearly, but now it rang strong and crystalline. It even had the same sweet, passionate tone that Combeferre had first sung it with.

If Cesar had given me

Glory and war

And if I must abandon

The love of my mother

It was no longer in his head. It sounded like somebody in the main room was singing, but they couldn't sound that much like Combeferre. Perhaps he was imagining it.

I would say to great Cesar:

Take thy scepter and car

It was definitely not his imagination. It was growing louder and was accompanied by footsteps making their way through the long passage to the backroom. It wasn't just one set of footsteps, but several. They were just outside the door now. Marius attempted to dry his eyes and prepare himself for the unexpected newcomers.

I prefer my mother, ah me!

The door swung open and Marius looked up to greet the newcomers and quietly take his leave. He was certainly not in the mood for company.

The sight that greeted him sent his heart leaping to his throat and turned his stomach in knots. He felt his jaw drop, but doubted that he had enough muscle control to right himself.

I prefer my mother.

Combeferre finished his song as the Amis filed in the room.

Marius blinked and attempted to rid himself of these strange illusions. As much as he wanted them to be real, he knew they were not. Allowing himself to believe they were would only make it more painful when reality struck again.

"Marius," playfully chided a voice that he had never expected to hear again, "is that any way to greet an old friend?"

From the back of the group bounded a slender young man with chestnut curls and emerald green eyes. He flashed a charming, but mischievous grin as he pushed his way past the other newcomers.

The man pulled Marius into a bear hug so tight that he was certain his ribs would break.

"'Feyrac?" Marius croaked. His lack of vocal power was partially due to shock and partially due to the lack of air in his lungs.

Courfeyrac pulled away and gave Marius a grin that would melt any young lady's heart.

"Surprised, aren't you?"

Marius was in a state of shock. The man in front of him was no illusion. One cannot hug an illusion.

"Courfeyrac!" he exclaimed with more enthusiasm now that he was certain that his friend was real.

They embraced again, but this time it was Courfeyrac who was shocked when he found that his feet had lost all contact with the floor. His laughter rang through the room, musical laughter that Marius had sorely missed. Putting his friend down, Marius turned to the shorter and thinner man next to him.

"Jehan!" he cried. The poet's hazel eyes gleamed as he embraced his friend. He looked just like Marius remembered him. The sleeves of his yellow doublet were stained with ink and a quill was tucked behind his ear.

Marius continued through the crowd of young men, greeting each one affectionately, until he found himself face to face with the icy blue gaze of Enjolras. He stood there awkwardly and felt his cheeks grow red. He was unsure of how to greet the graceful young man.

Enjolras was somehow different than the rest. His entire life had been the revolution. His mother was the republic, his mistress the homeland.

Now it's all gone.

Marius recalled the last time he had seen Enjolras on the barricade. It was slightly before he himself had fallen. Enjolras's hair had come loose from the ribbon that normally held it back. The light from the single torch illuminated the golden locks and made them shine like the nimbus of Saint Michel. The blood red flag behind him was tinted purple by the dim light. His soft, almost feminine, features glowed with an angelic light and warmth, while his icy blue eyes scanned the horizon continuously, searching for the dawn that would mark the end of the hellish night.

The dawn that never came.

Those same icy blue eyes now gazed at Marius. It made Marius uncomfortable to be looked at that way. It seemed to him that Enjolras was gazing right through him and learning more about him than he himself knew. Enjolras's emotions were unreadable, but Marius believed he might have seen the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Whether it was truly there or not, it gave Marius the confidence he needed.

"Enjolras," he greeted, finally deciding upon a handshake.

Enjolras accepted the offered hand and an unmistakable smile spread across his porcelain features.

"Mon frère," he said warmly, pulling Marius into a tight embrace and slightly startling the young man who did not expect such an intimate greeting.

After pulling apart, Marius simply gaped at his friends for a moment in amazement. It was completely impossible, he knew.

I watched them fall.

And yet, somehow, they were still here.

"How?" he asked to nobody in particular.

"Damned if we know," Bahorel answered. "Hell, we don't even know what we are."

"Perhaps the memories of an aching, lonely heart," Jean Prouvaire suggested.

"I don't believe so, Jehan," Combeferre corrected. "If we were memories, I doubt we would be able to think and analyze as we currently are."

"Not to mention, "sniffled Joly, "We would have no physical form."

"I guess we shouldn't rule out the supernatural then," Lesgles added. It was clear that the pending question didn't bother him in the slightest.

"No matter what we are," Feuilly cut in, "we cannot stay long."

Nods and mumbles confirmed that what Feuilly had asserted was true. Marius felt his heart drop so far that it must have hit the floor.

You knew at the start not to get your hopes up.

Marius scolded himself. He had known that it was impossible, but he had still allowed himself to hope. Now he felt all of his wishes and dreams ripped out from underneath him.

They were not back to stay. They weren't even truly back. They were just memories, or ghosts, or… something.

Marius would have told himself that they weren't even that, and that they were simply the delusions of an overtired and grieving mind, had he not personally felt each of their embraces.

"Marius?" Marius snapped out of his rumination to find nine pairs of eyes gazing intently at him. Courfeyrac was closest, his faces only inches from Marius's own.

"Are you alright?" he asked, as much as he attempted to mask it, concern was apparent on his face.

"Yes," Marius stuttered, "I… It's just…um…"

"Marius?"

"Leave the boy be," Grantaire's deep voice thundered. Although loud, the command was gentle. "He's had quite a shock."

"Shock?" inquired Joly.

"Yes. For like Orpheus, Marius has charmed Hades with his song. -although Marius's song sounded quite a bit like sobs and sniffles-Hades, the good man, obliged to his wishes and bestowed upon him, not Eurydice, but eight mortals and Apollo."

Enjolras, being said Apollo, raised an eyebrow at Grantaire, but let the man continue.

"But, alas! He looked over his shoulder only to discover that his victory was short lived and his prize must return to Hades, the greedy bastard." It took them all a moment to process the allusion, except for Jehan, who just nodded silently.

"Wait," said Marius. Having never studied the Greeks, nor conversed with Grantaire for extended periods of time, he was the last to comprehend the classical comparison.

"Are you saying that you are here because…" his cheeks began to burn, "because I was crying?"

He stared at his feet, thoroughly humiliated to have admitted this.

"I suppose," said Combeferre thoughtfully, "In a way."

"Come Marius," Feuilly commanded. "Sit down and we will explain the best we can."

Marius allowed himself to be led to the corner table. His friends gathered around and pressed in close, except for Combeferre and Enjolras. These two had seceded from the rest and stood a few feet away. They conversed in hushed tones, but it was not at all unusual for the chief and the guide to discuss some topics privately. Meanwhile, the centre made his presence known.

"Marius, we are here because you are a complete fool," Courfeyrac began, attempting to be serious, but a smirk was soon plastered across his face. Confused, Marius looked up, way up actually. Not only was Courfeyrac a good two inches taller than he was, but having run out of chairs, he had decided to seat himself on the edge of the table.

Seeing the confused look on Marius's face, the young dandy let out a small chuckle.

"Courfeyrac!" Jehan scolded.

He had removed a chair from a neighboring table and now perched himself upon it backwards with his elbows resting on the back.

"Alright," Courfeyrac played at being remorseful, but all who knew him could tell that he wasn't sorry in the least. He drew a deep breath and was about to plunge into another attempt at an explanation, when Joly decided that it would be best for all if he intervened.

"You see, Marius," Joly began, "when you were crying…"

Marius again turned an unflattering shade of crimson.

"Now Marius," Jehan interrupted Joly, "don't be ashamed. It's actually quite nice to know that we're missed so much."

Marius seemed unsure of what to make of this comment, so Joly continued.

"Yes, well, when you were crying you happened to say something."

"Oh," said Marius. Being the innocent that he was, he immediately thought that Joly was referring his small bout of swearing and was quite ashamed of himself. "About that," he said, "I just couldn't take it any longer and I…"

"Not that, you dolt!" This was Bahorel, impatient as ever, attempting to finally get to the point.

"What we mean," Feuilly interjected, for he was also growing impatient, "is 'don't ask me what your sacrifice was for.' That's why we are here."

By the time that all of this had been said and done, Enjolras and Combeferre had finished their conversation. (From what little Marius had overheard, he concluded that it was about how to best explain their presence.) Combeferre had made his way over to the rest of the Amis. Enjolras, meanwhile, leaned against the wall and seemed to stare off into space, but anyone who knew him could practically see the tumult of thoughts that was raging behind those brilliant blue eyes.

"Your exclamation called us, in a way," Combeferre explained, "None of us are quite sure how, but we know that the sole purpose of our appearance here is to make you understand. For, you see, if you do not understand why we gave our lives, our sacrifice would have been pointless."

Enjolras was now moved from his reverie and joined the others.

"Citizen," he asked the young man, "What do you see of the future?"

Marius was, needless to say, quite thrown by this question. He didn't even have an honest answer for Enjolras, much less know what he wanted to hear. After pondering it a moment, he still had no answer, but he felt everyone's eyes watching him, waiting.

"I cannot envision anything of the future," He finally admitted sheepishly.

"Nothing at all?" Jehan asked, bewildered, for Jehan was always seeing some romantic vision.

Marius simply shook his head.

"Then allow me to tell you of it." Enjolras's eyes, once again, had a faraway look, as if he was gazing to the horizon, instead of seeing the man in front of him.

"No more bloodshed. No more lies. Men will live in harmony and truth. All children will know their alphabet, for they shall all have instruction. All will have equal opportunities and all votes will have equal weight. The people will live in peace, in happiness, in light."

Enjolras was once again consumed by his thoughts, so now Combeferre spoke.

"Surely you believe in this dream, this future."

"I did believe once, but the dream died when…"

When all of you died

"The dream cannot die. It only wilts if you allow it to," Feuilly informed him, much to his confusion.

"I do not understand," Marius said.

They had tried bringing about this reign of harmony and truth, but they failed. They had lost. Nothing had changed.

"Just because we are gone does not mean that our hopes and dreams are too," Jehan took up where Feuilly left off. "It simply needs wings and it shall soar again! You, Marius, could be the wings." Jehan had jumped up from his chair and accompanied this lecture with overly dramatic gestures and expressions.

"I could be the wings?" Jehan might very well have been speaking Greek for all that Marius understood of it.

"What I believe Jehan is trying to say," Courfeyrac explained, "Is that as long as people continue to believe in it, the dream will live."

"Why did you go to the barricade?" Enjolras asked in the tone of someone who already knew the answer.

Marius wished that he could answer "To fight for freedom." or "To stand by my brothers." But he could not. That would be dishonest.

"I wanted to die." He said it in barely more than a whisper.

"You knew those on the barricade would die," Enjolras stated simply, "So did we, but we knew that we would enter a grave illuminated by the dawn. Our guns and sabers might not have overthrown the tyrant, but our deaths and legend will. Progress is inevitable. We died that night so progress may be quickened. The people will rise, as long as the progress continues."

"Where do I come in?" Marius asked. He was beginning to understand what they said, but was still uncertain about the role he was to play.

Courfeyrac answered, "Keep the progress going, mon ami. Keep the dream alive."

"It will be worth it," Hearing this spoken in the deep voice of Grantaire startled them all. The man had believed in nothing in life, so such a change of heart was surprising.

Enjolras looked at the man and a small, knowing smile appeared on his lips.

"Worth dying for," He confirmed.

The sound of a step in the passage outside silenced them all. Marius turned and saw the door open. In walked a plump lady with her dark hair pulled back in a bun, and her arms full of dishes.

"Sorry, Monsieur Marius," Louison apologized, "I thought I heard voices."

Of course you heard voices! Don't you see the…

No, she didn't, because they were no longer there. They had disappeared without a trace.

Remembering himself, Marius addressed Louison. "No need to apologize, Mademoiselle. I was just about to leave."

"Oh no. Please do not leave on my account!" As if to make her point, she hurried as she crossed the room into the kitchen.

Now that he was once again alone, Marius looked around the empty room. They were there. They had to have been real.

No. I am a fool. People do not come back from the dead.

He took one last look about the room before heading to the door. It was getting late and Cosette would be waiting.

"Ouch!"

He was not watching where he was going and had banged his knee against the corner of a chair. The chair was not where it belonged. It had been pulled from a nearby table and turned around backwards. He had caught himself on the back and was now looking down at the seat.

There was writing there. In a loopy script that Marius instantly recognized as Jehan Prouvaire's a short sentence had been written.

No army can withstand the strength of an idea whose time has come.

He touched the letters and the ink smudged slightly and stained his hand. The ink was wet. Jehan Prouvaire had written it recently.

Very recently

He straightened himself and glanced out the window. It was nearly nightfall.

He quickened his pace as he left the Musain. It may be night now, but tomorrow would bring a new dawn, and with it more work to be done.

A/N: Thank you for reading, and may I present to you my lovely muse, Jehan Prouvaire.

Jehan: *waves* Hi.

Patria: Um... so what now?

Jehan: I dunno. *blushes* I'm really new at this too!

Patria: I guess we'll ask for reviews then?

Jehan: Sure. Please throw some constructive criticism our way. We want to know how to get better.

Patria: Yeah. What the Ami said.