The air was thick with gunpowder and smoke. Every breath that Enjolras took burned at his throat, making him gasp and cough. And yet he relished each breath, each expansion and contraction of his diaphragm, each inflation and deflation of his lungs. After all, his lifespan was now best measured in seconds. He was standing alone in the inn, facing a group of soldiers. What was the proper term? A squad? A battalion? Some part of Enjolras' mind was distressed that he did not know the answer. He felt as if he should know the proper terminology for the group of soldiers who were moments away from ending his life.

The revolution had failed. Correction—it had been a disaster. Enjolras had honestly believed that the people of Paris would rally themselves to the side of the students. He had imagined men marching through the square, women donating furniture to build barricades that touched the sky, children carrying food and water to the defenders and the injured. He imagined an uprising so massive that they would be talking of their cause as far away as Australia. But they had failed, as so many before them had failed. And Enjolras had led them to that failure. He squared his shoulders and bared his chest, offering the soldiers a clear target. It was the least he deserved for leading his friends and supporters into this unwinnable battle.

"Long live the Republic! I'm one of them." Enjolras blanched in horror even as his eyes swung towards the interruption. He knew who the voice belonged to; of course he did. Grantaire—both his most faithful servant and the most persistent thorn in his side. Grantaire had been behind many of his troubles in organizing the revolution with his love for gaming and drinking alcohol. He had failed in his duties more than once and was responsible for lowering morale with his cynical comments more than once. Enjolras had asked himself more than once why the drunkard had any interest in defending the revolution. But Enjolras had never had reason to question Grantaire's courage, nor his heart. And here was the final proof.

The soldiers stirred nervously as Grantaire approached. The revolutionary was uninjured and surprisingly sober-looking, as he calmly passed the men who were pointing guns at Enjolras. Enjolras tried desperately to gesture him back with his eyes. For the first time since the soldiers had pointed guns at his chest, Enjolras felt a stab of fear. He deserved to die as punishment for leading so many to their deaths, but Grantaire did not. 'Run, Wine Cask,' he wanted to shout. But any acknowledgement from him—the leader of the rebels—would do nothing to improve Grantaire's position.

Grantaire moved to stand beside Enjolras, quietly repeating, "Long live the Republic." The look on his face was heart-breaking—a grim sorrow that was directed at Enjolras. 'I knew this would happen,' he seemed to say, 'but I am sorry that it did.' But to Enjolras' relief, there was no blame in his face. And then Enjolras understood. Grantaire had not gone into battle for the cause of democracy—he had gone into battle for him. He had prepared the barricades, recruited men, spread the word of revolution for him. And now that Enjolras was facing the punishment that was destined for the leader of the revolution, Grantaire's only wish was to die at his side. Enjolras had always objected to Grantaire calling him Apollo, but now he understood. In Grantaire's eyes, he was a god. And the best way to worship a god was to lay your life before Him.

And so, when Grantaire asked nervously, "Do you permit it,"—as if he feared that Enjolras would send him from his side at this final moment, Enjolras smiled and reached for his hand. The bullets piercing his flesh hurt, and Enjolras slid down to rest against the wall. His head dropped to look down at Grantaire who had slumped at his feet—the most noble of the revolutionaries, resting where he had always longed to be.