"We shall sell ourselves dearly," Enjolras said.

As the door below began to give way, Enjolras ordered to hack away the stairs. Himself he turned to the bottles he had saved to the last, distributing them hastily, two to each man, at the back of his feverish mind wondering why the assailants by the door fell silent.

Before they could put them to use, the floor shook. There was a sudden roar in the distance, the walls disintegrated into fragments of stone and wood, the sky itself seemed to cave in as the heavy smoke from outside permeated into the Corinth.

The last thought that crossed Enjolras's mind as he collapsed against the wall, thrown back by the impact, feeling something warm slither in several places at once, was that Prouvaire's talk of dragons must have been correct.

Then there was a sharp pain in his chest, the echo of someone crying Vive la République and slowly, darkness.

OOO

The pain continued, in strange leaping bursts, at each leap intensifying slightly, these increasing in frequency until the pain was nearly unbearable and Enjolras was forced to prise his eyes open.

There was flawless blue sky above him that somehow seemed to move jerkily in time with the bursts of pain.

He was lying on something soft but lumpy, occasionally even sharp. Rather curious now, Enjolras forced his head to the side and saw first ordinary multi-storied houses, also rolling slowly past, and then -

A corpse was staring at him, a bloody mess instead of one eye, a contorted expression of pain and anger on his white face.

He started to the side in shock, provoking such a pang that it seemed as if someone had plunged a knife straight into his chest.

He was alive, Enjolras reasoned, so much was evident. But where was he and why? It was as if his head was filled with cotton. Vague shreds of images fluttered around his mind, culminating in a clear image of a towering barricade. Was he a prisoner? They seemed to be on a cart of sorts, were they taking him to an execution?

Enjolras could not rightly tell but what he knew for sure was that he had to escape. They would be waiting for him on the barricade.

He raised himself up a little, clenching his teeth, trying to remain unseen, then looked around. They seemed to be entering a square, the cart slowing down with each second, the reason being a crowd that was gathering around them. Two soldiers in National Guard uniform were walking in front, rifle in hand.

Sensing that his powers were about to give in, Enjolras took a deep breath and threw himself off the edge of the cart, straight into a group of women huddling together on the pavement.

The last thing he felt before darkness enveloped him again was being hauled somewhere forward into the crowd.

OOO

"Maman, when will he wake up?"

The voice was too shrill and close for Enjolras's liking. He opened his eyes and saw a small face peering into his own.

"Look, maman!" the little girl exclaimed, laughing. "Look, I made him come alive!"

"Quiet, Annette," another voice said. A woman approached the bed and leant towards Enjolras with a fond smile. "Monsieur Enjolras needs rest."

"How… do you know," Enjolras tried to say, displeased to find his voice so weak, "who I am?"

"Why, my husband," the woman said, putting an hand on Enjolras's forehead. "Pierre Dupont, the cabinet maker, perhaps you remember him? He was with you on the barricade, then you sent him away because of family. And very grateful to you I am, Monsieur Enjolras. It's all very well to be heroes but when there are five mouths to feed…!"

"The barricade?" Enjolras interrupted, trying to sit up. "Is it - "

"Get down," the woman said, pushing him back gently. "The Lord knows how much bother I had with you. Near a month you lie here looking as you would depart any moment."

"A month?"

"26 days," Annette said, climbing onto the edge of the bed. "I've been counting, monsieur, ever since maman brought you. I even prayed for you, monsieur."

"Hush, Annette!"

"Just tell me, please," Enjolras whispered, "the barricade?"

"The Chanvrerie one? Destroyed, my dear."