Hello! Despite being extremely busy, I need to keep writing, so here we are. This story is multi-chapter, but it won't be very long so I know I can finish it. Enjoy!

See the notes at the end of the chapter for first names.

EDIT: I have recently made some small edits to the story, so hopefully it's better now. :)

Much love,

Unicadia

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

Jacques Enjolras hung limp in the officer's grasp, staring at the three friends left to him. No, those three, broken, bloody bodies lying in the street couldn't be his friends. His friends stood tall and proud, laughter on their lips and challenge in their eyes. Where could they be, then, the idiots? He remembered seeing Marius just before he ran back to the Corinth with Jean-Marie and Henri . . . In the back of his mind, he remembered someone that looked like Jean-Marie getting skewered on three bayonets, someone that might have been Henri collapsing just in front of the wine shop, a bullet in the back of his head, but he ignored these seeming memories. He must have been imagining it. Of course.

From something like beyond a dream, he heard the officer snap at the soldier beside him. "Why did you bring these three here? What do you want me to do with them?"

"I thought, sir, we could make an example of them." The soldier sounded young, no older than Jean Prouvaire, perhaps. Jacques's stomach twisted and he threw up on the pavement. The officer shook him, his voice filled with disgust.

"We already made an example of them, in case you did not notice."

The soldier sounded embarrassed. "Oh, I suppose so. Then . . ."

"I have no use for these dirty insurgents, only for the leader." The officer gave Jacques another shake, making his stomach churn even more. "They're all nearly dead anyway. Finish them off. I will be back shortly." He motioned to the other soldiers standing uncertainly to the side. "Come on. Have to deal with this one." The officer shoved Jacques over to them, then turned and marched down the street. The soldiers heaved Jacques up and dragged him after their officer.

Panic rose in Jacques and he craned his head around, trying to look back at the remains of his world. The barricade smoked in the distance, the National Guard searching for survivors. But Jacques knew in the dark, cold depths of his heart that they wouldn't find any. The only survivors were here, kneeling in pools of their own blood. Jacques's eyes filled with them, then clouded as he thought of those who did not survive. Where had the people gone? Did they not still live, like the defiant words Sacha-Josef had carved into the wall only hours before? Did they not live, unlike his friends? Where was the golden, happy future? Where had it all gone? He trembled with rage. No, it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

The figure at the end of the broken line raised his head. The long, chestnut curls matted around his pale, grimy face, his gray eyes full of death. The young soldier standing behind them looked over at Jacques, his face troubled. Something snapped within Jacques. He screamed and he couldn't stop. "Jean-Marie! Jean-Marie! Don't kill him! He's my best friend! Don't kill him! Jean-Marie!" He twisted in his captors' holds, struggling to escape. They grasped his arms and pulled him away.

"Shut up, boy."

Tears blinded Jacques as he continued struggling, kicking, screaming, "Jean-Marie! Jean-Marie! Barthélémy! Sacha-Josef!"

One of the soldier slapped him across the face. He didn't even notice. He did not stop screaming, not even when they turned the corner and he could no longer see his friends.

Three gunshots shattered the fragments of Jacques's world.

He stopped screaming.

They took him to a dark cell somewhere. Strange, rough men yelled at him, kicked him, asked him questions. He did not answer them, did not cry out. He was not there. He was back on a lonely barricade in a bloody Paris street, just hours before it all ended.

"We're all going to die, Combeferre," he whispered.

"I know that. They know that." A soft, sad smile. "But you always knew it, right?"

"I do not mind remaining here, dying for what I believe in. But the world needs you, Combe – Jean-Marie. Go. Live." The last word barely escaped his lips. "Please."

"If you stay, then I will stay."

He should have made him leave. Why didn't he? Sitting there, alone in the damp cell, Jacques relived the barricade, over and over, every time trying to figure out where he went wrong, what he could have done differently, how they might have won that day, if there was any possibility that Jean-Marie Combeferre could have lived.

There were things, oh, many little things. He could have spent more time recruiting beforehand so their numbers would have been greater. He could have bribed Gavroche into staying away from the barricade. He could have been more aware of those around him and kept René from getting shot that first night, and Jean Prouvaire from getting captured. There were a million little things. But would that have kept the cannons from tearing their fragile castle of tables and chairs apart? In the end, he only knew that despite everything else, if the people had come when they had called, they would be standing on the other side of that barricade now – not behind bars, not in shallow mass graves – but in freedom.

Every night, he dreamed of his last three friends, the last he saw of them, lying in the street moments from death. Barthélémy Joly, his throat partially slit by a bayonet, both legs broken beneath him. Sacha-Josef Feuilly, unconscious from a severe head wound, leaning on Joly's shoulder. And Jean-Marie Combeferre, his torso pierced by three bayonet wounds, his life's blood draining in front of him. Jacques would never be able to unsee those haunted eyes – eyes that knew Death was whispering in his ear.

One day – he did not know how long it had been, only that it was long enough for a beard to grow – one of the strange, rough men came to his cell and slammed the door open. "Jacques Enjolras."

Jacques remained seated on the floor, staring at the opening. That name couldn't belong to him. Jacques Enjolras fought on barricades. He didn't sit stupidly in the king's prison, wasting away when there were people dying in the streets.

The man glared at him. "You have been bailed out. Now get out from there."

Jacques unsteadily rose to his feet and stumbled out, his mind spinning. Who would bail him out? His father had disowned him and he had not heard from his mother in years. Perhaps his father had had a change of heart. The man led Jacques down the dark hall and out of the building. Jacques blinked in the sunlight he had forgotten for so long. The warmth felt strange and cold upon his skin and he did not know if he should be grateful or repulsed.

"Enjolras! I'm so glad you're alive! When they said they had caught the leader of the insurgents, I thought it couldn't possibly be, but then . . . well, in any case, once I knew you were alive, I had to bail you out."

Jacques turned and saw a man standing in front of him. He blinked. It was that love-sick boy that Henri befriended, Marius Pontmercy. He blinked again. Hadn't he seen Marius get shot as he ran back to the wine shop? Hadn't he seen him collapse to the ground, and inwardly curse himself for yet another casualty?

"Marius . . ."

Marius strode forward and grasped Jacques's shoulders in a partial embrace. "It's good to see you again."

Words never failed Jacques, but now they did. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had never spoken during his entire stay in the prison. "But you're . . . dead."

Marius laughed, a low, sad laugh. "Nay. Cosette – oh, you know Cosette? The girl that . . . well, she's my wife now. Her father, M. Va – ah, Fauchelevant, was there at the barricade. Do you remember? The very strong old man who took care of the inspector? Well, he rescued me. Grace of God, all I can say. Oh, Enjolras, you look pale. I know this is a lot to take in, but . . ."

Jacques's head hurt and his legs still felt shaky. Now he recalled that Marius did like to talk. He almost jumped when Marius suddenly let out a loud, "Oh!"

"Marius, what is going on?"

"I forgot! There is someone I want you to see." He grabbed Jacques by the hand and dragged him into the carriage waiting close by. Jacques's heart leaped as a streak of hope went through him. Perhaps one of the others had survived? Perhaps Jean-Marie . . .? But no, he did remember Cosette, and Marius must want to introduce him to her. He settled into the carriage seat beside Marius. Everything was happening so quickly and his brain was still trying to catch up. Marius was alive. Jacques had never been close to the boy, but he was glad he had survived, if no one else. He could not say he looked forward to meeting his wife, however. He did not care much for women. He had often felt he was the only one of his friends who felt that way. No, he mustn't think of them, not now, not with Marius . . .

They soon arrived at a modest apartment building. Marius ushered Jacques inside and up to the second floor. When he opened the door, a pretty young women in a pink dress rustled over to them, eyes bright. "Enjolras," said Marius, "this is my wife, Cosette. Cosette, this is M. Enjolras, the leader of Les Amis."

Jacques felt sick, but he managed a noncommittal smile and kissed Mm. Pontmercy's hand. She blushed and turned away. Feeling awkward, Jacques thought about excusing himself, though he did not know where he would go – where was there to go? He wondered if he still had his apartment, or if he had been counted dead along with the others, and all his belongings were sold or thrown into the street.

"Oh, he'll want to see him, won't he?" Mm. Pontmercy exclaimed, drawing Jacques back to reality.

"Yes, I completely forgot!" cried Marius. "Come, Enjolras." He strode past Jacques and down the hall. Jacques stared after him, confused. What was the Pontmercy boy up to now?

"Go with him," Mm. Pontmercy urged, giving him a small smile.

Marius stopped in front of a door, and looked back at Jacques, who still stood stiff where he first entered. "Come, Enjolras. It's nothing to worry about . . . well, that is . . . you mustn't be too shocked, but you need to see him."

"'Him'?" Jacques looked from Mm. Pontmercy to Marius, wishing with every moment that he could run away.

Marius heaved a sigh, returned to where Jacques stood, took his arm, and dragged him back down the hall to the door. "Now, like I said, do not be too shocked, you might . . . is he asleep, dear?" he called back to his wife.

"No, I just fed him."

Marius nodded and continued. "Yes. So, care that you do not startle him. He will not recognize you – he did not recognize me – but . . . you will see."

"Marius, what on earth are you blathering about?"

Marius did not answer, but opened the door. Jacques remained in the doorway. Marius nodded inside. "Well, go on." Reluctant, Jacques stepped into the room.

First names:

Jacques Enjolras

Jean-Marie Combeferre

Henri Courfeyrac

Sacha-Josef Feuilly

Barthélémy Joly

René Bahorel

Mathieu Grantaire

Fernand Laigle