AN: The first chapter of a fic that has been rattling around in my head for a long time now. I will likely continue it, but when I will do so is answered by blowing on the wind. Or in the wind. Why anyone is blowing on any wind is beyond me. This fic is AU and will contain a few graphic, disturbing scenes. So the rating may go up in later chapters.)

Peace.

Courfeyrac rarely enjoyed the quiet, but he could make out the noises of nature. Paris was always crowded, always sporadic and he hung about with different groups of people. Some shouted. Some laughed. None were silent. His feet hitting the cobblestones or the wooden floors of the cafes he frequented, there was always some form of noise. Steeped within the city, Courfeyrac felt at home. How strange then was the feeling of inner tranquility that flooded through him when he was at one with nature here.

Stretched out upon the grass, he gave not a thought to any stains upon his clothes. He knew in the back of his mind that he would emerge clean, untainted by the scent of the grass that surrounded him or their green smears on the back of his coat. His hat rested upon the center of his chest, his arms folded underneath his head, and with his green eyes shut, he was the perfect picture of bliss. The wind, what little there was of it, swept through his curls but did not muss. The scent of flowers hung in the air, not too heavy but not too light.

Everything was perfect. Everything felt perfect.

And then there was Enjolras who somehow completed the picture even as he stood above Courfeyrac with a slight frown etched upon his perfect features. Courfeyrac could feel his friend's presence even with his eyes shut. He heard the footfalls of Enjolras and knew whose tread brushed ever so slightly along the ground. Enjolras always had a natural silence around him that stirred just as well as his words. He could implore others to join him in the quiet with but a look.

It didn't always work on Courfeyrac but he so loved his friend for trying.

"You're back."

"I never left."

Courfeyrac smiled, his eyes still shut. He could feel the warm glow of the sun upon his face. "This must be painfully dull for you. Nature has never been something you enjoyed. If I asked you to look at the scenery now, would you do so?"

"There's not much by way of scenery where I stand, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac grunted in disapproval. "The sun might help your complexion as well. Some days you seem to shut yourself into your room or the Musain working endlessly upon your papers. At least my being here brings you outside."

"Is that where you are?"

Courfeyrac slowly opened his eyes not due to the strange question but because Enjolras' tone almost sounded worrying. "It is. Where are you?"

"Sitting in the same chair. Watching you."

Enjolras was standing. Courfeyrac frowned in puzzlement. "My dear friend, you aren't making much sense, and it's not like you to be so cryptic."

Enjolras knelt down beside Courfeyrac. A pale hand went out to touch Courfeyrac's forehead which made Courfeyrac smile. Enjolras' skin was cool in contrast to the rays of sun. This was a little strange, thought Courfeyrac. His friend always tended to hold a warmth that he felt emanated from his friend's soul. If anything, it made Enjolras far too easy to embrace.

Sometimes without warning beforehand.

"You aren't feverish anymore," Enjolras said rather bluntly. Also a surprise since Courfeyrac couldn't recall the last time he had been ill.

"If I was, it would be Joly attending to me and not you. Not that I'm complaining."

"Courfeyrac, what do you remember?"

Again with the strange questions! "What do I remember? I remember you most assuredly. I remember our friends. I remember not going to class today."

"Do you know why you didn't attend?"

"Because the professor is a prat and I had better things to do. Really now, Enjolras, it would be far easier to name the list of reasons as to why I wouldn't go than it would to name off why I should."

Enjolras took hold of Courfeyrac's hat, fingers pinching the brim lightly. "You missed class for a better reason than most. You didn't play billiards. You didn't brush off your attendance for any reason that could be filed under entertainment."

Courfeyrac wanted to go back to sleep within the sunlight and forget about the conversation, but there was something within Enjolras' tone that stopped him from doing so. "What day was it?"

"Tuesday."

"I don't much like Tuesdays."

"Why is that?"

"Bahorel was killed on a Tuesday."

The sun suddenly felt less warm. Courfeyrac's lingering smile vanished entirely as the weight of his words came back down to him. Enjolras just nodded for him to go on but Courfeyrac could not.

They sat in silence for a time. The grass was still soft beneath Courfeyrac, the air unchanging. The wind remained gentle and time continued to cease around them. "I'm sorry," Courfeyrac finally started. "I don't know what came over me."

"Don't stop there. You are half right. Why did you not attend class on Tuesday?"

Courfeyrac didn't want to answer, but disappointing Enjolras always seemed like the most terrible option. "To attend a funeral."

"Whose?"

Why was Enjolras asking? Surely he knew. "Lamarque's."

In the distance, a few dark clouds appeared overhead. Courfeyrac tried to pay them no heed. "The barricades." The words felt like cannon shots. How appropriate, he thought. How fitting that such a weapon would come to him now.

He remembered Bahorel's body falling. He remembered the terrible irony that descended down upon them all. The first of the lieutenants to fall had always seemed to be the most stalwart in battle. But first, before Bahorel, he remembered the old man. The dear old man and the books. First they came for the very old.

Then they came for the battle-hardened.

Then they came for the youth. Gavroche with his semi-innocence and belief.

Finally they came for his friends. He remembered the stench of gunpowder, having to squint behind the barrel of his gun to make out the silhouette of his enemies, taking up his sword and slicing through the flesh of the sappers. He remembered a night entrenched within old furniture. He remembered being told that his life would be lost here.

How terrible that must have been for them all! Yet, it wasn't the loss of life that so bothered Courfeyrac but the effect it would have upon the world at large. This wasn't a narcissistic idea, but when faced with one's own mortality, Courfeyrac had little choice but to go through the list of names of his family who would grieve. He would be leaving so much behind, so many goals unreached, so many ideas he couldn't put into practice. He would never graduate now. He would never again sit down with his friends and laugh with them, argue with them, look upon them with fondness.

He wondered how Enjolras had taken the idea. Enjolras with his lofty ways of uplifting his friends, of assigning them unspoken roles within the new world. Those roles would soon be obliterated. Was the world crashing down around him as well? If it was, his friend spoke nothing of it. His words were blunt and honest, but not pessimistic.

This was needed then, was it? His corpse was needed to protest the monarchy. What his life couldn't achieve, his body would have to answer for, and he immediately felt a sense of resignation. For his country, he would die. For the lives he could spare with his own, he would take those bullets.

Yet in the process of so much thought and so much morbidity that was rather unlike him, Bahorel came and took his seat next to Courfeyrac.

"What'd I miss?"

Courfeyrac had to admit that for a man that had taken so much damage as to be pronounced dead, Bahorel looked very good. So much so that Courfeyrac answered him.

"Today, we are going to die."

"No," Bahorel said. "No, I don't think we are."

Courfeyrac chalked that up to optimism that only those who were so near death could feel. A second-wind of life itself. Bahorel could take on the world now and Courfeyrac made a noise that was a mix of laughter and a sob. "Share those feelings more with me and let me fight beside you once again!" Perhaps he could absorb some of Bahorel's bravado.

The sun crept upwards.

It would be their final dawn and Courfeyrac tilted his head to the sky. He remembered Jehan as he felt the rays of sun against his face. Jehan, already graced to the heavens above, already likely looking down upon them and waiting. Waiting for them to take their rightful place beside him. He would look upon Jehan once more and greet him well as an old friend would do. He would go down swinging. He would go down shouting. He would go down magnificently because to do otherwise would be a disgrace to his own life.

His life, as it was, lasted only an hour more. Within his last ten minutes, he could feel the numbers of his existence ticking away. He felt jubilant. More at peace with his own decisions and life than ever. Here, at the end, he would make his stand. He would be known.

He would be missed, certainly, but at the same time, the hole that his departure left with the living would be felt. Others would try to fill that hole. Others would fight. But there would only be one Courfeyrac.

The cannon sounded. It was deafening, and Courfeyrac's death came not painfully but all at once. His demise came as he had lived, explosive and majestic. It tore him asunder and he fell soundless into the beauty of the passage between life and death.

He remembered a light. Glowing and unfamiliar. Bright but cool. There was little warmth and he remembered being told once that when he died, he would see his dead relatives. They would welcome him home. He remembered Jehan, but did not see his friend there. He did not see anyone.

And then the light dimmed and he felt once again.

There was no pain. There was shock, certainly, but it was a quiet shock. He died in noise and woke up to near silence. Bodies lay strewn across the ground. It was easy to catch sight of Joly and Bossuet. Joly who died with a cold. Bossuet who died trying to take the brunt of the battle away from Joly. He saw Combeferre with a new collection of bayonets. He did not see Enjolras or Feuilly, but he felt his heart ache for them all the same.

His heart.

It still beat.

Courfeyrac came back to himself, his hands fisted around clumps of grass as he sat up. The dark clouds grew ever closer.

"Tell me what happened," he said. While he would never try to command Enjolras of anything, his voice held a hint of desperation.

Enjolras' hand touched upon his own. "You remember."

Courfeyrac merely nodded and he grasped Enjolras' hand between his own. The hat that had been blown off his head earlier within the barricades still remained between them. "I remember waking."

But the sight had been too much.

He had seen more.

He saw Combeferre plucking the bayonets one by one out of him. The smell of blood hanging within the air. He remembered the sound of metal against flesh and the clatter of the bayonet as it hit the ground. He remembered Bossuet gently helping Joly to stand up. He remembered Bahorel tearing apart the rib cage of one of the dead National Guardsmen.

He remembered the noise coming back in the form of angry people. The shouting. The stampede. He remembered that their barricade had been one of the last to fall. How many had been taken during that terrible night? How many lives had been lost? How many people fallen to grapeshot or sappers?

How many people were now coming over the other side of that barricade in a flurry of vengeance?

He shook against Enjolras, trembling because he did not wish to wake up just yet, but he knew that he would have to. "How long has it been?"

"A month."

A month since the barricades fell. "And afterwards?"

"The people won."

The people won. Not 'we' won. The people. And it was spoken with such a careful detachment that Courfeyrac immediately felt terribly lost. "Is this why you need me?"

"I will always need you. Either for a Republic or without. You were brilliant, my dear friend, but you're worrying us so."

Courfeyrac had always known that Enjolras carried within him a tenderness that he sometimes displayed at the right times. Enjolras did not wear his heart upon his sleeve, but his genuine feelings of love were never far from the surface. If anything, such feelings became a proper motivator.

"I'm not dead, am I?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"You're not dead, but you were so badly taken apart that it took time for you to be put back together."

There it was. Courfeyrac, the walking embodiment of Humpty Dumpty. He wasn't too fond of the reference he made for himself. "You make it sound so ugly."

"On the contrary. It was a bit pleasant. Every day there was more of you. You're done healing. Now you sleep for different reasons."

Courfeyrac nodded, still clinging to Enjolras arm, embracing his friend. "I understand." A partial truth. He would awaken to far more understandings. An entirely new world, one with a Republic, but one that had terrible flaws if he read Enjolras correctly. While he didn't have Combeferre's intuition for his friend, he did like to think that he understood more of Enjolras than many others. He would awaken to a new set of responsibilities. Ones that he would have to grasp quickly in order to move forward.

"Where is this place then?" He asked. "If this isn't heaven and it isn't reality, what is it?"

"What does it feel like to you?"

Feel like to him. Not 'look like' to him. Courfeyrac shut his eyes once more, and he could suddenly hear the dim background noise of people. They weren't close by and he caught them in whispers. They spoke of words that had been out of the vocabulary of so many for a long time. They conveyed a sense of peace and security. An entitlement for themselves. A confidence that Courfeyrac mirrored within himself.

And he knew that everything would be all right.

He felt assured of it.

The scenery factored into it all, as serene as the people, and the people spoke what was within their hearts.

"Beyond the barricade," Courfeyrac whispered as his eyes slowly opened. The vision and sound of the whispers didn't depart. "Am I within your vision?"

"No," Enjolras smiled down at him. "This is yours."

A sharing of ideals. A meeting of minds. Courfeyrac could have sobbed in delight. To be able to know Enjolras was a daunting task. Figuring him out was both simple and complex. To be able to see what he saw, to be able to breathe in the air of what Enjolras spoke of was a delight and a blessing. How long had he spent wondering what it was that Enjolras dreamt of when he seemed to depart from his earthly shell at the Musain. Enjolras would share with them in words and spirit what he dreamt and they were allowed to dream alongside him. But dreams were just that, dreams. Enjolras saw a reality. He saw a world, and while he could share it in words, he could not bring his friends there to share within his construct so they could see it for themselves.

Words were so inadequate, Courfeyrac thought. Words couldn't convey the power of this place, the grandiose of the ideal, nor how simplistic it had become. He saw the end game in the here and now. He was allowed to ravish this moment, to burn the images into his brain, to take part within the world. Enjolras, forever the middleman, ever the prophet of this wonderful, beautiful realm, had his burdens lifted off his shoulders.

Courfeyrac could see it all now, stretched as far as his fingertips. Even the dark clouds on the horizon didn't trouble him. He was confident that they would be gone soon enough. That there existed a way to dismiss them.

This world could come into being, he knew.

"I will wake up," he said, his body no longer trembling. "I promise." He moved back to look Enjolras in the eyes. "But allow me just a bit longer here."

Enjolras gently cupped his face. "It's a gift that's given to everyone now. You'll see when you wake up, and even when you wake, this will not leave you." Still, he pressed his lips to Courfeyrac's forehead. "Sleep now, but remember that you're dearly needed still to bring this into a reality."

Their task was not yet fulfilled. Courfeyrac still had his role as the centre, his place by his chief's side. Living or dead, dreaming or awake, Courfeyrac understood that he would always be necessary.

"There is one thing that you must remember, though," Enjolras continued. "A promise you must make to me."

"Anything." At that point, Courfeyrac would have given him the world if he so asked.

"When you wake up, you must not eat the maid."

Enjolras vanished and Courfeyrac wasn't sad at his departure. He would see him again. For now, he lay back against the grass and took in the sun, Enjolras' final words a mystery that could wait.

When he awoke, it was within Enjolras' bed. The shades had been swept to the side allowing in the sunbeams to stretch across the comforter and caress Courfeyrac's hand. He thought, perhaps, that he could grip them if he tried.

"Ah, you're finally awake." Combeferre's voice came from across the room. He stood in the doorway, a tray in his hands. "I was going to try to lure you awake with your favorite drink."

"In that case, I shall pretend to sleep," Courfeyrac responded, his voice sounding as smooth as ever despite the month of disuse. He remembered what he had recalled while dreaming. Combeferre and the bloodied bayonets. Yet Combeferre moved with assurance, confidence, the same as ever. If he was injured, Courfeyrac couldn't tell.

Combeferre set the tray down and poured out some tea. "You'll need to sit up. Can you manage?"

Courfeyrac had his body ripped apart by grape shot. Said body was now sliding upwards as Courfeyrac perched himself neatly against the wall. Trust Enjolras to not have a headboard. He probably thought it would be too useless. What was comfort to saving the world? Courfeyrac loved him for that, but he did wish his friend could spring for a few luxuries. His body moved in accordance to his wishes and he took hold of the proffered teacup. His gaze drifted to the empty chair in the corner of the room.

Enjolras had been sitting, Courfeyrac remembered.

Combeferre followed Courfeyrac's gaze. "He had to go out. He's with Grantaire right now."

Courfeyrac tried not to pout. "He leaves when the action starts. How unlike him!"

"And how like you to keep us waiting for so long."

Courfeyrac just shrugged as he sipped the tea. The liquid was hot. He could tell from the steam rising from the cup, and yet his tongue felt no heat. Nor did the tea warm his body. Not that he was cold. Rather, he felt himself to be quite pleasant as far as temperature went, and at least he could taste the tea.

Yet, there was a part of him that was gradually waking up to a degree of being terribly unnerved. Dramatics tended to be more his style. He should be panicking at this stage, and Combeferre's careful gaze maintained its leveled stare upon him. He was waiting, Courfeyrac knew. He was waiting for the panic, waiting for the questions. And by god, he had plenty of questions.

"I can't taste the heat." This was not his greatest commentary and he knew it. Yet what he wanted to say, he couldn't yet figure out. Easier to focus on the smallest point and go from there.

"Extremes of temperature no longer affect us," Combeferre said, and Courfeyrac hated how well he knew Combeferre. He knew his friend well enough to realize just when Combeferre was trying to prevent a breakdown. He was delivering potentially bad news, and he was doing so as though it all made perfect sense.

"Us?"

Combeferre looked at his own teacup. "Us, as in those who were killed upon the barricades."

"So we died." The words came out. The meaning behind them was reaching a clawed hand up against Courfeyrac's neck, making the smaller hairs stand up. "We all died."

"We all died."

Bahorel had been the first. Bahorel who had told him that they weren't going to die. Bahorel who had died and then come back to take his place with his friends once more. "Combeferre," Courfeyrac swallowed around his rising fear. "Are we dead?"

Combeferre did not answer for a long time. "That is a complicated question. We live in a moralistic sense of life. It is a different life than those around us who did not die upon the barricade. We have been given a second chance."

How nice those words! How poetic they sounded! A second chance at life, a second chance to make up for any failures, a second chance to restore a Republic, a second chance to see their families. How lovely such an idea, and how strange that the concept could be wrapped up in such a beautiful package. Courfeyrac laughed and then balked at how hysterical it sounded. "A second chance. Are we going to rot, Combeferre? Are maggots devouring our insides?"

Combeferre pursed his lips. "We will not and they will not. I can give you plenty of scientific reasons. We've had a month to try and figure out a few answers. Not all, but a few. Enough to get us started."

Part of Courfeyrac would revel in this idea. That he had become something else. Perhaps something better, something stronger. He just needed time to adjust. He went to sleep as a revolutionary human and had woken up to...

To a second chance at life.

He scoffed again.

Then he remembered the promise he had made to Enjolras. "He said I shouldn't eat the maid," Courfeyrac whispered.

"Are you hungry?" Combeferre asked.

"Yes." It was the one surety right now in Courfeyrac's life. He was hungry. There was a need that lasted throughout the barricades, past the grape shot, and into the recovery. "Famished." And he thought of maids even as his mind rebelled at the idea that gripped his mind. He had promised Enjolras.

And Enjolras' disappointment was still the greater of the evils.

Combeferre stood up and took the tray. "Keep the tea," he said. "I'll fetch you some meat. You'll be eating it raw, but at least you won't taste the coldness."

Courfeyrac was a man accustomed to the finer quality foods in life. He had grown up on a diet of exquisite sweets and delicacies. His mother, ever the socialite, wined and dined with the best of them and he was never without a form of sustenance that he enjoyed. Food, to him, was akin to women. There were always new varieties, always new splendid items to pick and choose from, knowing that he would enjoy them all. He savored every moment in life and eating was no different.

Yet right now, raw cold meat sounded like the greatest meal he ever had in his life.