Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables.

Enjolras was not sure when it had all become so dire.

All he knew for certain was that there was no time for him to properly consider the matter as he hacked at the steps of the café.

Throwing the axe to the ground, Enjolras felt hands upon his shoulders, pulling him up, encouraging him to push up. He did so, and was soon hoisted onto the next floor.

Combeferre, Joly, and Courfeyrac stood around him, eyes wide, awaiting orders. What were they to do? How was he, their fearless leader, going to get them out of this?

Enjolras felt his face contort into pain. He had failed them now. There was nothing he could do. His friends, his brothers in arms, and he had let them reach their end.

There had been no time to escape. There was no honour in that. How could he leave them, when they were frightened? How could he disappear and let them finish on their own? Eponine was hiding, and he knew that was enough. Enough for now.

Yelling from downstairs. Pounding against the floorboards. The men huddled onto one spot, waiting. They panted and exchanged glances, hopeful, but helpless all the same.

Enjolras fisted his hands. The sounds of guns being readied prepared him for what was next. He shut his eyes.

Then there was gunfire. Echoing louder than that from outside. Wood splintered from under them.

Enjolras gasped, and prepared to fall, yet found himself standing strong. He turned to his friends, who now lay fallen by his feet. Anger surged through him. In all this devastation around him, how was it that he did not simply die? Why must he watch the demise of those he loved again and again? It was his turn a thousand times over.

The sound of feet running echoed through the walls. They were coming now. Enjolras backed towards the window, narrowly avoiding the spread limbs of his comrades.

They arrived in a handful, with guns and angry faces. It only occurred to Enjolras to think now that they were angry too; their men had been killed also. Now they would have their vengeance.

He stared them down, never tearing his eyes away. He would not show them fear.

Only the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps broke the silence.

The National Guard parted, revealing a slumped, dark-eyed figure.

Enjolras frowned. Grantaire.

The man swayed before him with the darkest of expressions. He moved slowly across the room. Enjolras shared with him a questioning look. Did he realise he had just sacrificed his escape to enter the room?

Grantaire stopped beside him, and shot him a small smirk that only suddenly made some sense.

All this time, he had believed him to be an uneducated drunkard. At least now he seemed an uneducated drunkard who cared. That was, in fact, all he had been searching for throughout this ordeal. Some sense of understanding with Grantaire.

Even Enjolras had to confess in that moment, that Grantaire had earned a small part of his respect. Such a thing was not willingly shared.

There was nothing to do but nod.

The stench of gunpowder hung in the air and clouded his senses. The sky outside seemed red, a faint cloud that almost appeared dusted with the blood of his friends. They had all fallen, all but one.

Grantaire beside him faced the National Guard, as still and sober as he had ever appeared. Enjolras allowed himself one final smile as he watched the man he could now call a friend sacrifice any means he had of escape to stand by him.

The long barrels of the muskets aimed towards him glimmered in the sun. A shudder ran down his spine, but he did not allow himself to show such a thing.

It was not Death he feared. It was many other things. Certain things that frightened him beyond comprehension. Yet mostly, it was the feeling of guilt that sunk in his stomach. He had let them down - he had let them all down. Now he would let her down as well.

She was waiting for him. His sweet, brave Eponine, just around the corner. Would she hear the gunshots? Would she find his body? He could now no longer be with her, and no longer love her in their lifetime. What he would have given just to have one last day with her. There was so much more she needed to teach him.

There was only one more thing left to be done.

To die.

Turning to face the Guard with his chest held straight and his expression held fierce, Enjolras stared them down. Not one of them would forget the face of the idealistic leader, proud and handsome even in his final moments. He was the very thing of revolution, and the last flicker of the flame.

Slowly, he raised his arm, the dark red fabric of his flag clutched between his fingers. He held to it as if it were her hand, comforting, and sincere.

He could taste the sharp, metallic feel of blood on his tongue as he closed his eyes.

Forgive me, Eponine.

The bullets pierced his chest and struck him backwards.

Through the window he fell, the red flag cascading like the downpour of his own blood.

Pressed tightly against the wall, Eponine's eyes were screwed shut. Her fingers were trembling.

The sounds had become so loud now. Gunfire and yells of angry men were just feet away from her. Among them, her friends. Among them, Enjolras. She had faith in him, and that he was strong enough to hold is own. But there was the small voice inside her mind, the words of doubt, hushing strange sounds in her ears. Their numbers were great, and the enemy had far more weapons than their own.

She had to make a choice, she knew. Either run, or join. There was no point in staying pressed against the darkness of the alley like a coward. Enjolras would be angry, yes, but she had to. Staying here was no more safer than running out into the open.

If she found him, then perhaps she could take him away from this pointless fight. It was over now. She had heard enough screams of her friends to know that they would not win. Any second longer she waited, another moment would pass her by, and her chance would be missed.

Now was the time to act. Perhaps if she could just run and hide somewhere where she could see properly. The café, perhaps. Or the other side of the barricade.

Shuddering with a breath, Eponine opened her eyes. The air before her had grown thick and suffocated with clouds of grey demise. Drawing a quick breath, she leaned forward, and pushed herself from the wall, forcing herself to step out into the midst of the horror.

Smoke. Debris. Blood. Chaos. It was all she could see.

She trailed along the side of the wall, not daring to stop for even a moment. Around her, figures fought, defended, and died. Keeping her eyes pointed forward, she continued to inch along the side towards the café, all the while keeping her vision on the scene bee fore her for a glimpse of a red jacket or a mess of blonde hair.

Something fell near her feet. It was only when she glanced down that she even realised it was a body of someone she had seen once or twice before.

Coming closer and closer towards the door of the café, she noticed with horror that the stairs had been destroyed. Had this been done by the National Guard? If Enjolras was not down here, then he must certainly be up there. Perhaps he was hiding. Yes, that must have been it.

Backing away from the entrance, there was a moment of pure ignorant bliss before she glanced upwards.

Breath seemed to escape her, knocking her back as if she had been winded.

There, hanging just inches above her, with a face of pure peace and stillness, was Enjolras.

Blood trickled down his chest and onto the ground. She was standing in a pool of his blood, and yet had barely noticed.

"Enjolras?..."

The sound of her own voice scared her. It was not hers. It was cracked with grief and quiet with disbelief.

Hands shaking, she slowly reached up, and paused there. He was still as stone, and pale as the moon. A breath shuddered her shoulders, and Eponine felt her eyes suddenly sting with moisture.

"No...no, no, no..."

She pressed her hand to his cheek, if even to stop it shaking.

She was too late. They had found him, and now he was dead.

He was now dead and she was left here. Everyone she had loved had well and truly left her.

Long, wet trails of tears now trickled down her cheeks. Feeling her knees become weak, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against his.

What did she do to deserve this? Had she no right to be happy? He had promised, promised to try and live. No good had come from his battle, and now the thought of what comes next stabbed her in the heart.

He did not deserve to die. The world needed him. The people needed him. There are few people in life who become indispensable, but Monsieur Enjolras was most certainly one of them.

She stepped back and examined him. His eyes were peacefully shut and quietly serine. His lips, creased with the lines of frowns and thought were painfully still. Even in death, he was remarkable.

Without warning, something seemed to pierce her. Hard.

Pain, then weakness. Letting her head drop down, she saw only the blurriness of it - the faint outline of a sword. And then it was gone.

Red quickly spread across white on her stomach.

Fate writes in a funny hand, she thought, before stumbling backwards.

She collapsed to the ground, shuddering with a sense of relief. As she lay on the ground, caked with dust and dirt, she pressed her hand to her gaping wound where the flesh was raw. Blood left her like a running stream in Spring. It was over now.

Enjolras was dead, but at least now, she would not have to wait.

In a few moments, she would be too. And they would be together again.

Her life was cold, and dark.

Yet she was no longer afraid.

She died in the midst of battle, without a hand to hold. She was alone, and in a deep state of bliss. A passing person would have seen her gentle face and could have guessed she was simply sleeping.

Above her body, Enjolras hung, a red sash cascading down below, as if reaching for her.

Their bodies would not be placed together. How could anyone have known? Known that they were even comrades in the same battle, or living in the same world? He was a leader, a gentleman, and she was a gamine without a home.

Nobody would ever know how in the midst of a harsh reality, their souls had intertwined.

Fin.