Here's something new I've been brainstorming. Let me know what you think, if it's worth continuing. I've posted the first two chapters, and definitely intend this to be a longer story if the interest and readership is there, so reviews will be extremely appreciated!

"You have to get them out of here," Enjolras said as calmly as he could muster to a horrified Combeferre. They were leaning fiercely against the increasingly unstable barricade, bracing themselves with each gun shot sound.

"I've said before, we'll share your fate, Enjolras," was the medical student's resolute reply.

"It's over," replied Enjolras. "I won't allow lives to be wasted. You need to live to fight again. When the people are ready."

"So do you, my friend."

A bullet whistled past, sending shattered fragments of a table in its wake, and barely missing them. Enjolras looked at the chaotic seen. There was hardly anyone still alive. A few members of the ill fated Friends of the ABC still fought, but the barricade was lost. It broke his heart, but Enjolras knew it. And he refused to lead his comrades further to the slaughter if there was the least bit of strength left in him to protect them. He looked at Combeferre, his oldest and dearest friend who he knew would gladly follow him into certain death, and his resolve only got stronger.

"I promise I'll try," he said. He motioned to a dimly lit alley-way. "If you go right now, I think you can escape. Lose the guns as soon as you think its safe, then do your best to pass for bystanders."

"Not without you," Combeferre protested.

"I'll find you," Enjolras insisted. "They'll recognize me and we'll all be caught if I go with you. They know I'm the leader, so I'm going to lead them off. But I'll evade them. I know my way around here, probably better than they do. I'll give you the opportunity to get out, and then I will find you. Then we'll all regroup and return to work. I promise."

"You're lying Enjolras," said Combeferre somberly. Another grapeshot sent shrapnel screaming through their side of the barricade. A piece of the wood struck Courfeyrac in the the leg, sending him painfully to his knees. Combeferre could see the horror etched on Enjolras' face.

"Damn it, then do me the dignity of honoring my last request of you!" he snapped, his tone of urgency now giving way to full blown desperation. Tears started rolling down Combeferre's eyes. They both looked at Courfeyrac, who was struggling to his feet, his musket held firmly by shaking hands. "Go help him. Get them all out."

Combeferre understood. He begrudged and hated it, and knew his decision to obey the chief now would haunt him to the end of his days, but he was out of resistance. He put a hand on the side of Enjolras' face and leaned forward, kissing him somberly on the forehead. "Goodbye my dearest friend," he said softly.

Then they parted. Enjolras, with the last burst of courage he could summon, climbed perilously up the barricade in plain view of the soldiers bombarding. It was his desperate hope that his suicide mission would surprise and confuse them long enough, and that he would manage to dodge the barrage of bullets just long enough, to draw their attention away from his escaping friends.

Combeferre raced to Courfeyrac's side and motioned for the others to follow. He didn't have time to take inventory of who remained, but he was confident that in Enjolras' absence, they would trust his leadership. Feuilly was quickly at his side to help support the limping Courfeyrac, and Joly followed closely behind.

When they reached the alley that Enjolras had indicated, Courfeyrac spoke up through ragged breaths.

"Where's Enjolras?" They all turned to Combeferre, remembering that he was the last one seen with their missing chief. Combeferre realized then, in horror, that only the four of them were left. He didn't yet know the severity of Courfeyrac's wound.

"He went a different direction," said Combeferre calmly. "We have to keep moving."

"What do you mean, a different direction?" Courfeyrac protested as Combeferre tried to help him move forward. The pain in his leg was enormous, and the blood was flowing aggressively, but his fear for Enjolras took precedent in his mind. "You just let him go?!"

This stung Combeferre right in the depths of his soul. His eyes filled with tears again, but he couldn't show weakness now. If he wavered, he would quickly turn and race back to the barricade in search of Enjolras. But that would be the worst dishonor, he thought, to waste his sacrifice.

"If you think I could have stopped him, then you don't know him," he said firmly, then he firmly retook his hold of Courfeyrac's shoulder.

"Combeferre, he'll be killed!" exclaimed Joly.

"And if we don't escape like he wanted, it will have been in vain," Combeferre persisted, hating himself for speaking in such a way. "I won't do that to him; please don't make me."

"He's right, we have to keep going," said Feuilly. "I know you would never leave him lightly, Combeferre. He ordered you away, didn't he?" Combeferre nodded, and Courfeyrac accepted his help again.

"We move on," he said with a hiss from the pain. "And we fight another day."

"For France and for Enjolras," said Joly. The grieving company trudged forward.

Enjolras's plan was, at least partially, working. A dozen or so soldiers had followed him up into the back room of the tavern. His carbine was broken and useless as he quickly found himself cornered against a wall. He threw the gun down and stood as firmly as the marble he was often compared to. As they formed ranks around him, he prepared himself for the end. It was easy for him to accept it, now that he was confident of his friends' safety. He stared at them boldly as they readied their guns.

"Wait," instructed an officer. "This was their leader. He's unarmed, and I think he's of more use alive then dead. We don't want it said of us that we summarily executed school boys in taverns. The battle is ending, so let us take him alive. He can answer to the law and to the king for his crimes, then die like a criminal, not a hero."

"Whatever you do to me doesn't matter," Enjolras began calmly and bravely. "Others will take my place and what we've fought and died for here will have its victory."

"What's your name, boy?" barked the officer.

"Rene Enjolras." He saw no reason to lie about or withhold this information.

"Well, Rene Enjolras, what others do will be of little concern to you soon I imagine. You're under arrest for high treason." He turned his attention to one of his men. "Take him."

Enjolras never broke eye contact with the officer, even as the other man bound his hands with course rope and roughly shoved him forward. If he was nervous, he never let it show as he held his head high, ready to face whatever came.

Unseen by the party as they filed out with their valued prisoner in tow, Grantaire began to wake from his drunken stupor at a tiny table. He was struck with a sudden and sad clarity as Enjolras was led out. He cursed himself for not waking sooner, although he was unsure what he would have been able to do.

He forced himself to his feet and staggered to the window. The scene was horrifying. Grantaire had always seen the rebellion ending this way: with the streets littered with corpses, a small handful of prisoners under close guard, and the people on whom Enjolras had so enthusiastically counted nowhere to be found. But Grantaire had never been so sorry to be right. He wondered about the fates of the rest of the Friends of the ABC; his thoughts went only in grim and painful directions.

But above all, he thought of Enjolras.

What would happen to their charismatic leader in the hands of the authorities? Grantaire shuddered at the thought, because there wasn't any real uncertainty about it. He'd be convicted of treason and either publicly executed or sent to toil away on a chain gang for the rest of his days. The only uncertainty was which would be a worse fate for the young freedom fighter, who Grantaire admired so much. The morning after ghosts of the liquor were lingering and the rising sun assaulted his eyes, and Grantaire, filled with fear and grief, couldn't recall a time he'd felt more sober.

Suddenly, he hated the government with an intensity that once would have made Enjolras proud. Grantaire almost laughed at the irony, for he knew that the man he called Apollo would in fact chastise him for his reasons. Grantaire, who was never moved to passion, only bitter cynicism, by social injustice, was focused and determined to achieve his new goal: to find a way to stop these villains from crushing Apollo.