The Night That Ends At Last *Les Miserables Romance (Enjolras)*

Epilogue - Part I: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

Epilogue – Part I: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

 Oh my friends, my friends don’t ask me,

What your sacrifice was for.

Empty chairs at empty tables,

Where my friends will sing no more…

 ~~**~~

When Grantaire woke, the world around him was silent. At first he could not remember anything, something the effects alcohol regularly had on him. His head was throbbing, his hands clammy, and there were large purple bags under his blue eyes. Belching, the young drunk shifted in his uncomfortable position; something rolled underneath him. When he saw the dark green glass of wine bottles, memories stirred. The sound of gunfire and screaming, the rumbling of the ground underneath him, a flicker of red and blue flashing past his vision; not acknowledging his presence. The last was… a girl, a girl with golden hair. Grantaire sighed with confusion, trying to wipe a hand across his brow, when he noticed the bottle he was holding. Joleigh had given him that. It was Joleigh! Now he remembered her words. Goodbye?  What was that about? She was going to the meeting room, maybe the rest of Les Amis were celebrating the victory. He had missed it after all, sleeping in the wine alcove through the attack; Enjolras was surely going to shout at him. The thought made Grantaire groan loudly. He hated when Enjolras shouted at him. All he wanted…all he ever wanted…oh never mind, there was no point in delving on the subject of his wishes as he knew they would never come true. The drunk pushed himself up using the wall, and stumbled out of the alcove kicking the empty bottles around him. There were two things he noticed when he reached the banister. The first was the silence. Looking left and right, no one was around, and there wasn’t even the typical street noise. The second was the mess. The bannister was broken, below he could see broken glass on the stairs, and chairs were pushed over, the windows shattered. Grantaire grumbled something along the lines of ‘It’s worse than my place’ before he caught sight of the bodies. His eyes widened with shock. From above he could only see a leg, though as he staggered down the steps, he saw them. The three bodies of Combeferre, Joly and Courfeyrac lay in a mangled heap, blood staining the wooden floorboards around them. Grantaire couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t move. He just stared at his friends, the look of pain frozen on their faces, the paleness of their skin. What had he missed? What had happened? Goodbye Grantaire...

And then it clicked. Words cannot describe how fast Grantaire clambered back up the stairs.

When he staggered through the doorway to the meeting room, the scene he was greeted with made him freeze. The world seemed to stop. 

“No…” was all he could manage. All other words just trailed off. It wasn’t a statement, but neither an exclamation. Either way, Grantaire then let out a dreadful heart-wrenching cry. He saw the legs of Enjolras on the window ledge. The rest of his Apollo’s body was dangling out of sight. Below him was Joleigh. Her frail body seemed shattered on the ground; arms outstretched towards the wall, her face turned away, stains of red on her dress. “No-no…” The drunk stumbled across the room, shaking his head, insuring out loud that this was just one of his terrible drunken dreams. But when he got to the bodies, and looked out the window, Grantaire knew it was real. Enjolras hung like a ragdoll, unmoving except for the slight rustle of the slipping red flag in his suspended grasp. This was the sight the young man could not take. “Enjolras?” His voice was barely over a whisper. He did not get a reply. Grantaire’s eyes welled. “Enjolras?” He asked again and again. Nothing. With a grieving moan the drunk grasped the torso of his Apollo and pulled it back inside the room. Grantaire collapsed to his knees beside the body. He shivered violently. “Enjolras, wake up!” His voice cracked behind a clenched jaw. “Please…” Grantaire stared at the closed eyes, the beautiful and stern complexion etched on his leader’s face that was stained in red. Then the tears fell; one by one, each large droplet splashing onto the fabric of Enjolras’ coat. “Please!” Grantaire wailed and fell upon the body. He hugged Enjolras’ limp figure, entwining his fingers into those golden curls, pressing his head into his neck to stifle his cries. Now Grantaire knew that Enjolras was gone, for if he were alive he would not have tolerated Grantaire to hold him in that way. The dark haired man sobbed and shifted upwards so he looked down on Enjolras’ face. “Why did you do this? Why?” Grantaire whispered hoarsely, tenderly dragging a finger across the dead man’s jaw, “You…you-” The young drunk sighed in sobriety.