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Grantaire ordered a drink, one of many others that night. Since he couldn't sleep, he would dull himself with wine and other liquors. The table he was sat at was shaky and by the look of it, had welcomed patrons for centuries. He kept drinking silently, the pendulum of the petrol lamp swinging above his head. Around him, people were laughing, shouting, playing cards or dominoes. Grantaire, in his shabby corner, had lost the taste of careless gambling and light-hearted laughter.

The only thing his lips could muster, it seemed, was reaching his glass. He did so, and often.

"What are we celebrating?" a gravelly voice asked.

Grantaire raised his head. A woman had taken place at the other end of the table, carrying a pitcher of what he imagined to be wine in her hand. For a second, he thought she was a working girl looking for a client. They often did that, waiting for Grantaire to be blind drunk before offering their services to him. He always refused now. His appetite for women had waned along with his weakness for gambling. All he felt was thirst, these days.

Except once. There had been a girl once. She worked the street as well, but Grantaire paid no mind to such puritan matters. She was blonde, a pretty face, blue eyes, though not the right shade. He doubted she had even reached twenty. He had wanted her, Lord how he had wanted her. Or so he had thought. The moment her dress had come undone, that he had seen her breasts and her inviting hips, his desire had vanished. She was beautiful, but she wasn't the one Grantaire wanted to hold. He had paid her all the same, for her trouble.

"An anniversary," he finally answered, burying half of his face in his glass.

"Of what?" the woman asked. She was one of the waitresses, Grantaire reckoned.

"Of my death."

His grim tone amused her. She let out a raspy laugh and filled his cup to the rim. Grantaire reached his purse, but the waitress held back his arm.

"I've never served a dead man before," she said. "This one is on the house. The next ones won't."

The next ones, plural. She wasn't wrong. The night was just getting started. Grantaire managed a small smile and nodded thankfully. He had to admit wine tasted better whenever he did not have to pay for it.

He leant back in his chair. The petrol lamp swung some more, it's light casting a shadow over his mind. Yet, he could still see through the dark veil of his intoxicated memory, and what stared back kept chilling him to the bone.

It had been a year. A year since they had fallen. A year since Grantaire had awoken, slouched on a small table of the Corinthe, seemingly dead. Maybe that was the reason why the National Guard had not shot him; his drunken slumber had been so deep they had thought him dead already. He might as well have been. He still remembered waking up to the bells of noon, groaning from the after-effect of alcohol. The place had been unrecognisable. The walls had been littered with bullets, the room stripped of its furniture, every glass available had been broken. On the floorboards, a pool of blood had been left to dry under the ray of the sun. Whose blood, Grantaire had not known at the time. That knowledge had come soon after.

The National Guard had flung Enjolras' body through the window. It had probably seemed easier than lowering him ceremoniously. All the stairs had been torn down, after all. The fall had bent his arm in an awkward and unnatural angle. Grantaire could still see it in his sleep. He looked beautiful, even in death, as though he was merely sleeping. Only the eight bullets scattered all over his body had given it away. There had been a thin craquelure running along his tremble. The marble of Enjolras' skin had become just that: hard and cold.

Grantaire had watched in horror at the bodies laid on the cobbles. His friends, the closest thing to a family, dead, all of them dead. He had seen a frozen smile on Courfeyrac's lips and a war cry immortalised on Bahorel's. He had seen Gavroche, young loud-mouthed Gavroche left to rot. It was more than his stomach had been able handle.

The other faces were a blur. Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly... Grantaire had seen someone cradling Jean Prouvaire's body, a bit further down the street, like one lulls a crying child. Except Jehan hadn't been the one crying.

Grantaire finished his glass in one gulp. He was going to need something stronger to make it through the night. Raising an unsteady arm, he hailed the waitress.

"Go sleep off your wine somewhere else, we're closing!"

The owner of the establishment was a lot less amicable than his employees, as it turned out. A couple of drinks later—though the number added up to more than a couple—Grantaire had been promptly informed that his table did not double as a bed. Since he had not complied and stayed stubbornly slumped over the worn out wood, the master of the house had resorted to more compelling methods.

"I've paid!" he slurred, barely standing on his legs. "My table for the night! It's my right!"

"You right," the owner seethed, "Your only right is to keep your ugly nose where it is, and not having me straighten it back into place! Now get out of my sight, you sack of wine!"

Grantaire made sure the man knew where he could shove his threats before the door closed. He spat on the wooden panel, or at least he thought he did. His short-term memory was as muddled as the rest of him.

Unable to find his way back home, Grantaire staggered down a dark alley. The alcohol was flaring in his stomach, so much that he unburdened himself on the ground. A great year, spent in a constant state of apathy and drunkenness. Had he had a glass, he would have raised it. He let himself slide against the clammy wall, at a respectable distance from his filth. The owner was right, he had to sleep it off. He wanted to. He wanted to sleep it all off.

His head lolled against the wall and he closed his eyes. Yet, darkness was not complete. Something was still dancing in front of his lids, a light he had not noticed before. Grantaire risked looking through his lashes, to see if it wasn't a policeman's lamp. The blinding brightness had nothing to do with a policeman's gear, nor did it have anything earthly. Grantaire masked his eyes with his hand, whining against the luster of the light.

"Grantaire," a voice called.

The latter shuddered. The voice resembled nothing human. It was akin to rock crystal, beautiful yet hard and commanding. It had an edge to it, one you could cut yourself on.

In spite of himself, Grantaire forced his fingers apart, taking another peek at the brightness. Though still painful, it did not burn as much as before. Grantaire squinted, the effort twisting his features. He saw a man standing a few feet away from him, tall and solemn. Immediately, the blonde hair, delicate lips and soft features struck him:

"Enjolras?"

A severe look answered him. The man wasn't Enjolras, but he could easily have been his brother. Rather than blue eyes, his were dark, almost black, striking in contrast with the pallor of his cheeks and the gold of his mane. Terrified, Grantaire recoiled, bringing his knees against his chest. How much did he have to drink? His ill mind was making him see things.

"Grantaire," the man repeated. "Do you know who I am?"

His words snapped like one strikes the strings of a lyre. Grantaire closed his eyes, desirous to make the vision go away and shook his head.

"I don't know. I don't know anything!" he cried.

Then, thinking the lack of answer would anger the creature, he tried desperately, a tremor agitating his voice:

"An angel?"

Grantaire had given up on the idea of Heaven or Hell a long time ago. Dead was dead. Afterlife was the security blanket mankind had woven to unearth purpose from a barren ground. Yet the creature was still here, glowing in glory. The angel was more than Grantaire could comprehend.

"Look at me," the angel ordered.

Trembling, the mere mortal raised his eyes towards the angel once again. Every hint of intoxication left him, as thought his tongue hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in months. There was a distinct lack of wings about him. The severe absence of a halo, too. Grantaire detailed him closely. His clothes were nothing a Frenchman would have worn. The garments—and they were few—were worthy of an art collection. His tunic looked so white and resplendent Grantaire could see each and every colour of the spectrum reflect in his light. A laurel wreath was crowning his lush hair, like he had been born wearing it. He was no angel. Grantaire sensed a demented panic overcoming him. He had gone completely insane!

"Apollo," he whispered in awe and utter disbelief.

The godly figure smiled at last, but it did nothing to sooth the terror running through Grantaire.

"Yes," he confirmed soberly. "But do you know who I am?"

Grantaire furrow his brows at the question. Hadn't he just answered? Had he forgotten to speak out loud? Apollo was staring at him expectantly. Grantaire wondered if he had chosen an appearance close to Enjolras' on purpose, or if Enjolras had been modelled after the god himself.

"Y–You're the g–god of music and p–poetry," he stammered. "Of prophecies. Of plagues."

The radiant god smiled some more.

"And of healing," Apollo added, his melodious voice taking a warm accent. "I am here to help you heal. You have suffered for too long, Grantaire."

Two emotions fought side by side within Grantaire. A part of him wanted him to burst out laughing, while the other brought bitter tears to the corner of his eyes. The battle resulted in a choked sound, a sob and a fit of laughter that died as they collided.

"What?" he croaked.

"I will help you retrieve your beloved from his resting place," Apollo announced in complete earnestness.

'Beloved'. Grantaire had never thought such a thing about Enjolras. He had felt it, yes, but never put it into words. Words were traitorous, you always found a curve to hang from or an edge to cut yourself with, within a word. 'Beloved' had too many nooses to Grantaire's liking.

Yet, the deity did not seem to be mocking him. He was offering something much more cruel than mockery: hope.

"How?" Grantaire asked, hardly believing he was given such a gift.

"The soul you long for resides in a place no mortal can hope to enter. No without divine help, that is. I will lead you to the gates. After that, most of the journey will be your own, for I can't cross that threshold."

"You are a god," Grantaire remarked. Surely a gate couldn't keep a god out!

"And thus immortal," Apollo explained dryly. "What would I be doing in a place of rest? The only gods who can enter are those who have been granted access. My uncle has never extended the courtesy to me."

His voiced sounded bitter now. For a second, Grantaire wondered if the god's benevolence wasn't rancour disguised as altruism. Even so, did it really matter? Who cared about petty vengeance, if he could get Enjolras back? He snatched the thought as soon as he formulated it. Bringing him back. Was there such things? Was there such things as gods? The one in front of his eyes seemed real enough. He doubted alcohol could have inspired such a vivid delusion.

"Do you accept my gift, Grantaire?"

Something in the tone of his voice informed the mortal that he wasn't expected to refuse.

"It will be a difficult journey," Apollo continued, earnestly. "It will take all of your strength. It may even be painful. The living does not simply visit the dead without suffering consequences."

Grantaire swallowed and held on to the stones behind him to get up. His legs weren't trembling under his weight. The drunken wave that usually agitated and disoriented him was nowhere to be felt. He was nothing less than pure determination.

"I do. I accept."

"Very well."

A hand rested on Grantaire's shoulder. The latter hardly had the time to blink that the alleyway had disappeared. The fingers clasped around him felt human, though they gave off an aura of unearthly grace and poise. They were heavier than those of a mere man. The weight of immortality, Grantaire thought.

It wasn't easy to tell they had changed location. For a moment, Apollo's glow was all there was. Then, Grantaire's eyes accustomed to the darkness.

There was a gate, tall, solidly built, standing before them. Grantaire had never seen anything like it. The metal seem ancient and venerable, yet it was untouched by rust and decay. The door was open, the landscape unfolding as far as the eye could see. The rest was a high fence made of the same metal. Menacing brambles wound and twisted around the sophisticated lacy shapes, making it almost impossible to see through it. Behind him, there was nothing. It was as though they were standing on the edge of the known world, where reality had yet to be defined. Still, Grantaire felt drawn to the darkness, the idea of an endless void.

"Do not look back," Apollo commanded. "You are not heading that way."

Grantaire turned his gaze back towards the impossibly tall gate. The Underworld. That was where he was headed. His body recoiled for a second, screaming at his foolishness, but his heart fought his instincts. The thought of Enjolras animated him, the beating of his heart ringing to his ears.

"Easy is the way down to the Underworld: by night and by day dark Hades' door stands open; but to retrace one's steps and to make a way out to the upper air, that's the task, that is the labour," Apollo recited, his words like a warm summer breeze. Yet why did it chill Grantaire to the bone?

"Virgil," the latter murmured.

The god of poetry deserved his title. Grantaire stared beyond the gate, looking for a path, anything to follow. If Virgil had spoken true, his way down would be no trouble, but there was nothing but arid lands stretching before him. His throat grew tight with apprehension.

"How shall I―"

"Take this," Apollo said.

He broke off a part of his laurel wreath and handed Grantaire the resulting bough. It shone in his dirty hands like nothing he had ever seen before. It was as though staring into the light of a thousand suns, though it did not blind him. Looking up, Grantaire noticed the missing bough had immediately been replaced in the crown.

"It will be your master key through the domain," the divinity continued. "Present it to anyone or anything that may stand in your way. It is a token of my protection, they will submit to it."

It was the favour of a god. What a strange thing. The Christian God had never done Grantaire any favours, how come Apollo himself had taken a liking in him? He looked down at the bough. The golden leaves looked like metal, but smelt fresh of olives and sunlight. He could feel it, weighing against his skin. It was real.

"Do you have any question?"

It was his queue, Grantaire knew it. Though thoroughly ill-prepared and scared, the only question that came to mind was:

"Why?"

Why him? There were so many lives lost everyday. So many deserving souls to retrieve from the pit. Enjolras surely was one of them, but why choose Grantaire to accomplish this task, when there existed more worthy and reliable people? He slept while his friends were being slaughtered!

"Are you questioning the will of the gods, Grantaire?" Apollo asked, visibly restraining his amusement.

"No I―That's not―"

Pearly teeth appeared beneath the perfect divine lips. Dazzled, Grantaire looked at his feet, detailing the shadows creeping around his shoes.

"Thank you," Grantaire finally blurted out.

Apollo was gone. There was nothing left but Grantaire and the golden bough. He bit the inside of his cheek. There was no going back. The only possible way was forward. He had taken the offer, after all.

He took a sharp breath and put away the bough in his pocket. Though delicate, it didn't seem easily breakable, as though it was made of marble covered in gold leaves. Grantaire felt his heart pounding, in an attempt to escape his chest and flee away from his intentions. It was too late for that. He balled up his fists and strode through the gates. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, his eyes shut tight, waiting for a strike.

Nothing happened. Grantaire opened his eyes. He was standing a little farther than before, the metal doors behind him. He had entered the Realm of the Dead.

The ground was leaving ochre dust on his shoes and the hem of his trousers as he walked on. Overhead, the sky didn't not sport any star, nor was it its usual shade. It reminded Grantaire of wine, somehow, with its deep hues of Bordeaux. The landscape was limited to dead trees and the air was dry, attacking his nostrils and his throat.

A while later, Grantaire arrived at the bank of a river. It too, reminded him of wine, though its shade was much lighter, much... All things considered, Grantaire did not which to know what was flowing in front of his eyes. There was no bridge to cross the stream. Grantaire could have swum across easily, after all it couldn't have been more than ten yards wide, but the idea of the crimson flow was sickening.

Just as he began thinking there was no way around it, a boat approached the river bank. Charon, Grantaire thought. So all the stories are true. With an overwhelming apathy that sent shivers down the mortal's spine, the ferryman stopped his boat at Grantaire's level. It was a wonder souls did not turn the other way at the sight of his raw flesh and bones. Two black holes stared at Grantaire. Though Charon had no eyes to see, Grantaire still felt as though he was studying his soul, piercing through him, laying him bare. Think of Enjolras, he reminded himself.

"You do not belong here," the ferryman exhaled. His voice was guttural. It was an eternal dying breath.

Grantaire swallowed hard.

"Apollo sends me."

The name tasted strange on his tongue, like he wasn't worthy to say it out loud. He tried to keep his voice steady, though the task was demanding. Charon's face remained blank and unaffected by the news.

"May I," Grantaire began. Formalities had never been his strong suit, but he figured an ancient rower might appreciate his attempt at politeness. "May I benefit from your generous help? I need to cross the river."

"I do not offer help," Charon said, his stony expression still very much on.

Grantaire felt pebbles falling into his stomach. He'd have to swim across. The ferryman sketched a slow movement towards his oar, ready to set invisible sails. Panicked, Grantaire raked a hand through his hair before dropping his arm along his thigh. In his pocket, a little lump seemed to call for his attention.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, taking the golden bough out of his pocket. "Wait! I have this!"

Charon's dead eyes―or lack thereof―stared back at him, his movement suspended. The glow of the bough seemed to appeal to his better nature, since he lowered his arms. Grantaire tried to conceal the horror of his rotten flesh rolling on his exposed bones.

"I do not offer help," he repeated. "I row against payment. That will do."

The wood of the boat hit the river bank with a blunt sound. Grantaire gaped at Charon before recovering this senses. Mechanically, his legs carried him onto the deck. Standing so close to the rower of the Dead did not sit well with him, but retching there and then would have probably been rude. Grantaire stretched out his arm towards the ferryman, his hand clasping his token as tight as he could to avoid trembling. With an odd finesse, Charon pinched one of the golden leaves between his thumb and his index, plucking it out as easily as it had been the petal of a daisy. He seemed to examine it thoroughly for a second, and returned to his oar.

Petrified, Grantaire spent the short voyage looking at his only possession, admiring the curve of Apollo's gift. Without the leaf Charon had collected, only three remained. The mortal only hoped he wouldn't have many more people to pay. According to Virgil, the way back promised more pitfalls than a rower with rigid principals.

The other side of the river seemed more hospitable. The ground resembled that of Earth, though a little muddy. The sky was hiding a storm behind heavy grey clouds, but nothing Grantaire would have called unusual. There were even scarce sprouts growing here and there, tufts of grass and hints of flowers. Overall, it was a much more familiar sight than the grim entryway.

Grantaire thanked Charon, though his gratefulness hardly moved the impassive creature. He was careful no to bid him farewell. I'll be back anyway, he thought, with Enjolras.

A path had been traced in the muck, its design winding and losing itself on the horizon. Grantaire's feet hurt at the very idea of the journey. Where was he even supposed to meet Enjolras? How would be find him? Apollo wasn't here to answer his question anymore. Perhaps, in the same way all the road led to Rome, the only way to Enjolras was forward. Taking a deep breath, Grantaire started walking.

His odyssey was calm, though lonely. His only company was the wind sweeping the plain and the cawing of crows overhead. There were herds of them, big, jet black birds whirling in the sky. They never attacked nor approached, but Grantaire still felt wary of their presence. Those birds of ill omen were nothing, though, when compared to the shadows lurking behind his back. Grantaire only saw them from the corner of his eyes. Big wings, tawny feathers. What he couldn't make out it by sight, he could guess by his hearing: harpies. Perhaps they could feel Apollo's protection on him, because they never chose to attack either. Grantaire did not doubt he would have made a feast. How many living beings had they tasted in their many years?

There was no way to tell how much time had passed. There was no sun to guide him, nor did he own a pocket watch. All he could refer himself to was the ground under his feet. The gates and the Styx were far out of sight.

Little by little, the sky became clearer, its greys turning to whites and shy blues. Under Grantaire's feet, the grass grew thicker and plentiful. The harpies and crows not longer filled his ears with screams and his heart with apprehension. In front of him, the path slithered down a gentle slope down to another river and yet another circle of the Underworld. Guess Dante hadn't been entirely wrong about those, Grantaire mused.

Contrary to the Styx, there was no boat allowing him to cross the flow. In its stead stood a simple bridge, guarded by a woman. She was no Charon. To begin with, she seemed radically more alive than the ferryman, and significantly more cheerful. Though exhausted, Grantaire smiled to the gatekeeper.

"I have—"

"You have been sent by Apollo," the woman cut him off, though her interruption did not sound rude from her mouth. Her gaze was soothing and full of kindness, and her voice akin to a lullaby. "I know who you are, Grantaire. I am Pasithea, the goddess of rest. I have often wished to bestow my gifts on you, you troubled soul."

Speechless, Grantaire stared at the divinity. She knew him. How? He could not fathom that any god or creature would have ever cared! He was no one!

"Do not look so alarmed," Pasithea laughed gently. "I feel every soul who is in need of me, and I guard those who have made their final voyage."

She looked over her shoulder and Grantaire followed her gaze. A grassy and flowery expanse was rolling over hills for miles and miles behind her, on the other side of the river. It would have made a pastoral poet blush with envy, with its light breeze and sunlight. If Grantaire had been walking through Purgatory, the other side was Paradise. The Fields of Asphodel, he understood.

"My friends," he asked, feeling an excited tremor growing in his throat, "are they beyond that bridge? Are they at peace?"

Joy had be absent of his life for so long Grantaire struggled to recognise it. His friends! He would finally have the chance to say goodbye! Pasithea nodded.

"They are. They were so young—too young. But youthful souls are always the most lively of all. They're very entertaining."

Grantaire smiled at that. He did not doubt Bahorel and Courfeyrac had brought their fair share of shenanigans, even in death. He was even surprised Bahorel had found rest altogether, the man was relentless! The goddess stepped aside, giving him free access to the bridge.

"Before you cross, I need my payment. You are a living soul, thus you are not under my care."

"Oh! Of course, of course!"

A second golden leaf was plucked off the bough, only leaving two attached to the branch. As Grantaire made his first step onto the bridge, he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The kind touch lingered before it seeped through his skin, washing his stress away like a warm wave. Instantly, the knots littering his back loosened, allowing him to breathe better.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Go. You will see me again soon enough."

The bridge was solid under his feet, impeccably dry against the peaceful flow of the river. The closer Grantaire got from the river bank, the warmer he felt. A light wind was playing with his hair, conveying a faint hint of honey. The Fields of Asphodel unfolded before him, vibrant and infinite. Even the grass felt like cotton. Grantaire looked back, but the goddess of rest had her back to him. She had already gone back to her duties.

Asphodel abounded with souls, though it never seemed crowded. Grantaire watched with amazement as he walked past people of all eras, all dressed in garments he had never seen or dreamt of. He saw children laughing and running around, elders playing chess and lovers kissing on the grass. So that was death? A new beginning? An eternity of idleness? The afterlife had never tasted so sweet.

Grantaire kept walking through the meadow, looking for a familiar face, or eight. He would gasp at the sight of a waistcoat and feel his hopes beat in his chest at the slightest shade of red. Yet, there was no sign of les Amis de l'ABC, or what was left of it.

"All I'm saying, my dear, is that the human body could hypothetically survive solely on butter and boiled potatoes!"

Grantaire stopped dead. He knew that voice! A deep laugh followed the snippet of conversation and Grantaire's heart sang. On his left, perched in a tree, two familiar figures were reclined against wide branches, limbs dangling in the open air. Joly and Bossuet were even wearing the same clothes Grantaire had last saw them in.

"I thought you didn't climb trees because you were scared of bug bites!" he shouted, a grin ever growing on his lips.

On his branch, Joly straightened up with a gasp, his youthful face suddenly bathed in sunlight. Grantaire felt his lip twitch and his throat tighten. Enjolras hadn't been the only void in his life. His heart had ached from the lack of friendship as well.

Joly gaped at him, as though Grantaire was the ghost and he was the living soul. His stupor was only broken by Bossuet's languid yawn. Apparently, the eagle had not landed yet. Joly tugged at his companion's sleeve, never leaving Grantaire out of sight. The tufts of hair sticking on top of his head didn't help with his flabbergasted expression.

"Bossuet! Bossuet! Grantaire is here!"

No sooner had he finished his sentence that he pushed himself off the tree, managing the fall gracefully. The landing would probably have broken his ankles, had he been alive. Frivolous matters such as pain did not apply to the dead, it seemed. Joly's ankles were swift and strong when he ran straight into Grantaire arms, almost throwing the living off balance. He felt incredibly lively, for a mere spirit.

"It's good to see you too, my friend," Grantaire managed breathlessly, Joly squeezing his rib cage as tight as he could.

It was more warmth than he had felt over a whole year. Grantaire hugged the small frame of his friend, memories of other embraces flooding though his brain. It felt like going home after a long absence. Joly clung to him, tears welling up in his eyes. Oh, he had always been an emotional crier, that one!

Since Joly and Bossuet always shared everything, it was only right for the former to step aside and let latter greet the new-comer. Bossuet opened his arms wide, his smile following suit. He did not wrap them around Grantaire's chest, however. He settled his hands on either side of the living's face and gave him a hard kiss on the mouth. Grantaire barely had the time to arch his brow that Bossuet laughed, freeing his lips.

"You're finally here!" Bossuet enthused. "How could I ever rest without my capital R!"

Grantaire let out a small laugh, trying his best to control the emotions stinging his eyes. Bossuet's laughter was a roar, but to him it sounded like the tinkle of a bell. He'd never thought he would hear it ever again.

"Look at you!" Joly deplored. "Your sleeves are filthier than your mind! And that is quite the statement! Did you die in a bar fight?"

Grantaire looked down at himself. The road had stained his shoes and trousers, but the stains on his shirt had gotten there from his own clumsiness. Or drunkenness. Both, most days. The cleanliness of his outfit wasn't Grantaire's main interest, though:

"I am—I'm not dead."

Bossuet laughed harder.

"Of course you're not! We're all just spending a nice week in the countryside!"

"We were all like that, at first," Joly assured, stroking Grantaire's arm gently. "Denial is part of the process."

"No, I assure you! I'm alive!," Grantaire protested. "I was sent here by Apollo! I'm not dead!"

Both of his friends looked at him, then at themselves, visibly unconvinced. Only then did Grantaire realise how strange his story was.

"Here, look at this!" he said, pulling the golden bough out of his pocket and presenting it to the duo. "Apollo gave it to me. I have used it as currency to get here."

Delicately, Joly took the token in his hands, examining it closely. Bossuet brushed the tip of a leaf with his index, mesmerised by the radiance of the object.

"Then," Bossuet started, his eyes still focused on the bough, "why did he send you? I do not doubt your merits, my friend, but what business can you have here? It may be a garden, but it will only ever be a barren one!"

Grantaire pinched his lips together, feeling two pairs of eyes on him. He was supposed to bring Enjolras back, but what about them? What about the souls he'd leave behind? What about his friends? If he thought the situation was unfair, he couldn't imagine their reaction!

"He told me—he allowed me—to bring Enjolras back to life," he answered sheepishly. "I—I have to lead him out of the Underworld. I know it's unfair and cruel to the rest of you. If I could..."

Disappointing his friends even in death was a new low. But instead of cold glares, his friends gazed back with compassion.

"Don't apologise," Bossuet assured with a soothing voice, his hand rubbing Grantaire's shoulder. "I've always admired Enjolras. It is only fair for the gods to take a liking in him as well."

"The Styx is too unsanitary to my tastes, anyway," Joly added.

He held out the bough for Grantaire to take it back and squeezed his hand.

"Come," said Bossuet, snaking an arm around his friend's shoulders. "There are a lot of people waiting for you."

They led him forward. It was a nice change, to be guided. Grantaire had only had himself for company so far, except for a fearsome ferryman and a kind deity. Most of the hours spent in the Underworld had been solitary ones. To think of it, most of the days at the surface had been solitary. What a paradox, to find company amongst the dead.

In an instant, it was like nothing had changed. The three of them were back together, like old times. They began chatting idly, Joly and Bossuet pointing at this or that passer-by, telling him of the acquaintances they had made. Then they inquired about the world as they had left it, and those they had left behind.

"What about our Musichetta?" Joly asked eagerly. "Is she well?

Grantaire felt a wide smile stretching his lips, though it was a bittersweet one.

"She is! Motherhood suits her," he slipped, giving his friends meaningful looks.

The pair froze, speechless. Grantaire could read all sorts of emotions on their faces, but the most legible of all was pure and utter joy. Joly seemed on the verge of explosion while Bossuet was raking invisible hair on his scalp.

"She's—she's with child?" Bossuet asked, letting out a sound that resembled a choked sob.

Grantaire's smile widened. His poor friend had stayed so long underground he had lost the perception of time! He pressed his index against Bossuet's chest, taunting him kindly.

"No. She has a child! Your child!" He pushed against his finger before pointing it at Joly. "And your child."

Again, it was too many emotions for Joly to handle. The sun shone upon his lips but his eyes let out torrents. He promptly got rid of his glasses to wipe his cheeks while Bossuet was holding him from behind, his chin settled atop the mop of black hair.

"It's a boy," Grantaire continued. "She called him Félix. She thought you would appreciate it, l'Aigle. He's healthy. Three months old but already strong, like his mother."

Grantaire had seen him twice. He and Musichetta had tried to find support in each other, after such a heavy loss, but it didn't work as well as they had hoped. Musichetta and her child deserved more than a soak for company. Still, she had sent for him when the baby was born. Grantaire had held the little life in his arms and smiled at the flailing limbs. The apple had not fallen far from the tree: Félix had been as noisy as Bossuet on a bender.

"I'm so sorry," Grantaire added. "I wish you could have known him."

The tears shed by the happy parents did not carry the salt of regret. Joly waved off his condolences, his other hand firmly clasping Bossuet's.

"He's in good hands," Bossuet said, rubbing his lover's back. "Hopefully, when you and Enjolras climb back up, he will have you both as well."

Grantaire was at a loss for words. The fact that people kept trusting him was beyond his understanding. He wasn't sure he deserved any of what he had received so far! However loud, his doubts remained stuck in his throat. It was a joyful moment, there was no need to ruin it. Instead, he watched and listened to Joly and Bossuet speculate about their offspring, how he would grow up, how fast he would lose his hair. The sorrows of the living were Grantaire's to carry. The Fields of Asphodel were a place of rest and bliss, after all. He would let them have just that.

As they kept going, Grantaire saw the hint of a lake drawing on the horizon. The rays of a never-setting sun was reflecting on the impossibly clear water, dazzling him. If he had thought Asphodel was idyllic before, he had clearly seen nothing yet. On the beach, three familiar figure were skipping stones, escaping protests or triumphant exclamations in turns.

"You cheater!"

"It's called talent, my dear Bahorel. I do not expect you to—"

"Hey!" Joly called, waving his arm in the air. "Hey, look who's here!"

Gavroche turned around first, his little face twisting with a gasp. Even from a distance, Grantaire could see something burning in his eyes. For a second, he thought the gamin would reach him first, but Bahorel had longer and stronger legs.

He also had, incidentally, stronger arms. His hold around Grantaire was crushing, but expected.

"I've never known you to be late to a party, my friend!" Bahorel cried out with good humour, the palm of his hand sending thunderous claps against Grantaire's back.

The two other figures had caught up. Soon, Jehan had his arms knotted around the visitor's neck and Gavroche had resorted to punch his hip as a greeting.

"Old man, always dragging behind!" the kid huffed, though Grantaire could see the gaps between his teeth through his smile.

They have missed me, Grantaire kept thinking. It was an odd thought. Though he had longed for them, and deeply, he had never thought about the other way around. Primarily because until recently, his idea of the afterlife consisted in rotting underground, but also because why would they miss him, of all people? Yet, they were here, smiling and welcoming him amongst them. Gavroche had taken his heels in the blink of an eye, gone to fetch the others. Grantaire watched his golden head disappear. Perhaps, in a moment, he would come back, joined by another crown of blonde hair...

In the meantime, Bossuet did his best to explain the situation to Bahorel and Jehan. It was an endless circle of explanations. The more Amis trickled into the conversation, to more they had to start the story over. When Gavroche came back, all of les Amis de l'ABC were gathered around Grantaire. All except one notable absentee.

They sat upon the grass, bathing in the sunlight. The conversation drifted towards many topics, as much about their lives—or rather afterlives—than Grantaire's. Grantaire learnt Jehan enjoyed the company of Dante and Byron while Combeferre preferred Newton and Galileo's. Feuilly explained how he had taken orphans under his wings, even here, at the end of all things. As Joly and Bossuet before them, they asked after their loved ones. Though they were polite in doing so, Grantaire could feel the rush in their voices.

"What of Marius?" Courfeyrac asked, a hopeful look on his face.

"Last I've heard of him, he was getting married to his Cosette!" Grantaire announced.

The news was welcomed by a round of applause, all of them laughing and cheering for the youngest not quite member of the ABC. Courfeyrac slammed the palm of his hand against his chest, looking like a proud father. Other inquires burst around, but Grantaire lack the knowledge to answer most of them. He couldn't give Combeferre news of his mother, nor did he know anything about Gavroche's orphans.

"They have learnt from the best, they should be fine," he offered as a comfort.

The compliment seemed to hit bull's eye, since the gamin puffed out his chest with pride. Bahorel proceeded to tousle his hair to shake the excess of ego off the boy. Jehan shifted a little closer to Grantaire. Contrary to the others, he asked his question discreetly, almost in a whisper:

"Any news of Montparnasse? Is he—is he dead?"

Grantaire furrowed his brow. Jehan stared at the grass, playing against the blades with a soft hand but a heavy heart.

"If he were, he'd be here with you, wouldn't he?"

"No," Jehan croaked. "No, he would not."

Something ached in Grantaire's chest. Not everybody reached Asphodel, he reminded himself , and certainly not a thief and a murderer. Jehan would never see him again. Not even in this life.

"He's alive," Grantaire informed with a smile.

Jehan's head snapped up, though he was clearly holding back his hopes.

"The police can't seem to get their hands on him. He's a clever one."

If the police couldn't catch him, Montparnasse had gotten quite famous for catching members of the National Guard instead. They had started to drop like flies shortly after the barricade. Grief weighed differently on mournful souls. Grantaire drank, Montparnasse killed. Jehan didn't need to know any of it. Shattering his fond expression would have been cruel, now that he was finally at peace. Therefore, Grantaire left it at that, returning to more pleasant chats and thoughts.

Still, a question was weighing on his mind, in spite of his overwhelmingly good company. If they were all here, where was Enjolras?

"Combeferre? Tell me, is our fearless leader anywhere to be found?"

After all, it was Enjolras he had been charged to bring back to the realm of the living. Grantaire could hardly accomplish that feat without the main party involved!

"He ought to be here," Combeferre answered, as puzzled as he was. "Gavroche?"

"I could not find him," Gavroche added, though the situation didn't seem to worry him. "Perhaps he's found yet another political leader to praise or criticise."

Grantaire huffed with a smile. Yes, perhaps. He pictured Enjolras towering Napoleon Bonaparte, giving him a piece of his mind in three parts with a foolproof development. His political convictions had not died with him, of that he could be sure. Grantaire wondered how many people he had disturbed in their peaceful afterlives. The number probably ranged between two hundreds and too many.

"Grantaire?"

The whole group started at the calling. The metallic voice had nothing familiar, nor human for that matter. All the eyes turned towards a creature standing a few feet away from them. Grantaire swallowed with difficulty. He had forgotten this world could be one of nightmare, also. The creature was more aking to a reptile than a man, though its shape mimicked the outline of the latter. Two yellow eyes stared at him, their split pupils stopping his blood from pumping.

"Y—Yes?"

"You are summoned at the Palace."

Its voice was cold and empty, as though it had never laughed in its life. Grantaire flashed a panicked look at the others. They were as lost as he was.

"Perhaps," Feuilly suggested, shaking himself out of the fearful trance. "Perhaps Hades wants to see you before you take Enjolras back with you? It's his kingdom, after all. He may want to give you his blessing."

Courfeyrac squeezed Grantaire's arm as an encouragement, but his body seemed to have lost all nerve endings. Only his head remained, that and the paralysing terror running through him.

His legs felt limp when he got up, casting one last look behind him as a silent plea for help. But what could they do? As much as they had fought for freedom in another life, the Ruler of the Underworld wasn't someone who could be overthrown. Bahorel gave him a confident nod, but Grantaire could see his hand clasping Feuilly's.

The creature was slightly smaller than he was, so Grantaire had to lower his gaze to look at it. The prospect sent chills down his spine; it wasn't the kind of creature you looked down at without suffering consequences. From up close, he could see all the blue-grey scales covering its body, each edge as sharp as a blade. It could have slashed Grantaire's skin with a shrug, if the idea spurted in its mind.

"Where to?" Grantaire wheezed, his breath struggling against his dry throat.

A cold fist closed around his arm and the rays of the sun ceased to tickle his skin. The greens of Asphodel disappeared, leaving him blind. Only the sickeningly yellow eyes remained.

The air was chill, so much so that a thin plume of smoked escaped Grantaire's mouth. His eyes slowly acclimating to the darkness, he made out the enclosure of tall walls around him, built in a rich black marble. White cracks were running along the stone, burning bright against the darkness.

"Wait here until your name is call," the creature ordered before disappearing behind a hidden door.

A choked sound escaped Grantaire. He couldn't be here! All he wanted—Had Apollo known this would happen? He looked around. The room was an anti chamber of some kind, most likely leading to a much bigger and imposing one. Grantaire's throat tightened at the sight of the monumental iron doors facing him. The Palace, the creature had said. Fear turned his stomach as though a snake was slithering through his guts. Behind him, a door stood open, ready to be crossed. He could run. He could get out of there and never look back. Grantaire shut his eyes tight, summoning Enjolras' face to his mind. He saw the blond hair and soft jaw, but he couldn't quite recollect his image. Time had erased his features, and Grantaire hated himself for it.

"Grantaire," he heard.

His eyes flew open. Before him, the large iron doors creaked menacingly, letting a ray of light seep through the crack. Instinctively, the mortal sought Enjolras' face, but what he saw instead drew all of his attention.

At the other end of an immense room, sat on a carved throne, was Hades, Ruler of the Underworld. If his sight inspired awe in Grantaire, it was nothing compared to that of Persephone. Grantaire had never set eyes on a princess, let alone a queen, but he couldn't imagine anyone being more regal than her. Persephone wasn't beautiful. She was sublime. She was the waves crushing ships during a tempest. She was thunder and rain devastating the countryside, breathtaking and majestic. Grantaire suddenly felt incredibly insignificant, once put in the same room as her.

She did not address him first, however.

"Mortal," Hades called, his cavernous tone bouncing against the marble of the walls. "Come forth."

It was a wonder Grantaire's heartbeat did not reverberate through the room as well. His steps felt heavy against the polished floor. Now that he was seeing him closer, Hades didn't seem as old as Grantaire had pictured him to be. His beard wasn't white, but jet-black, giving him a severe air. He did not seem cruel either; dignified an strict, yes, but not cruel.

"State you business here," he commanded.

Grantaire tried to swallow his heart after it had jumped in his throat.

"Apollo sends me," he croaked awkwardly, wiping his clammy palms against his waistcoat. "I—I wish to claim one of the souls in your possession, Sir... Your Honour...Your Majesty."

How did one address the Ruler of the Underworld? On his throne, Hades clasped his armrests in impatience. Grantaire felt his shoulders slump.

"And why should I grant you this gift, mortal? My nephew is riddled with whims. How many more of his favourites is he going to send me, after you?"

Apollo's favourite. If his cheeks had not been livid, Grantaire would have blushed furiously. He would never have had the audacity to call himself that! A god, electing him as his favourite! Hades had made a fair point, however: why?

By the king's side, the queen leant toward her husband, resting her hand on his tense fingers. She gave off such an aura of authority Hades himself looked powerless in comparison. As she extended her arm, golden dots shone on her dark skin. Even her body deserved to be showered with riches.

"Let us hear him, dear," Persephone purred soothingly. "You condemn so easily. You do know I like stories."

Grantaire watched them, unsure whether or not he was supposed to speak. Looking at the queen and her intricate dress, he realised how underdressed he was, and how dirty. He was not fit to appear before a king. All of this was going terribly wrong.

"So?" Hades sighed, sending a wild jolt through the mortal.

"I—I wish to be reunited with the soul answering to the name of Enjolras, your Highness. If you would grant me the authorisation, I shall bring him back to the living, to those he loves. To his mistress."

"Aren't you his lover?" Persephone asked, surprised.

Grantaire's breath hitched, as much because of the question than the person who had asked it.

"I am not, your Majesty."

"Yet you're in love with him, are you not?" she insisted, matter-of-factly.

Lips trembling, Grantaire almost felt a bead of blood piercing through them. He had never put a word on it. He had never dared.

"Y—Yes, your Majesty. I do."

"But he doesn't love you, since he has a mistress of his own. How come you have made the journey and she did not?"

The words were said without malice, but they hurt just as much.

"His mistress is France, your Highness. She's the one he loves. Enjolras is a man of the people, he loves them fiercely and unconditionally. He's selfless, so much so that he gave his life for France without looking back. He sacrificed himself, and I have no doubt he would do it again, given the chance."

The more he talked, the bolder he felt. A flame had started to burn in his chest, warming him up, protecting him against the cold atmosphere of the throne room.

"He has never loved me, and he probably never will. Some days, I even wondered if he liked me at all, even as a friend. It doesn't matter. I do not matter. If I bring him back, it won't be for my own benefit, but for that of the people. I don't believe the world is ever going to change. I know mankind is rotten, and we surely make you laugh with our insignificant wars and petty struggles. I don't believe in anything, except that the world is a better place with Enjolras in it."

Silence seeped into the room. Grantaire felt strangely lighter after pouring out years of undisclosed thoughts. Yet, his dread still ensnared his rib cage, making it hard to breath. It occurred to him that he was perhaps the only one who breathed. The dead do not breathe, do they? A small hiccup choked him. No matter now selfless his reasons were, the Rulers of the Underworld always had the last word, not him.

Persephone and Hades exchanged a meaningful look. It is strange and beautiful, to see two being communicate with eyes alone. For how long had they known each other? Centuries? Millenium? Grantaire saw them lacing their fingers together on the armrest. The silence was unbearable, playing with his nerves. He was certain he had forgotten to breath.

"I shall let you lead him back to the surface," began Hades.

Overcome with relief, Grantaire fell to his knees. The journey had weakened him, not only his body, but also his spirits. He was going to bring him home. He would see him again! A gentle rain wet the cold hard floor. To Grantaire's utmost surprise, a flower spontaneously bloomed from his tears.

"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" he babbled, unable to stop himself.

"There is one condition, however."

A gasp resounded through the throne room. All of Grantaire's body tensed. It was always the same with the gods! They would never give anything without a catch! Still knelt on the floor, Grantaire raised his head, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Anything," he pleaded.

"He will walk behind you, for you mustn't look at him, not even once. He will not speak, and he will not touch you, though he will be there. He will be invisible to you until you both reach the gates. If you look, just for a single glance, he will return to the fields of Asphodel, and you will never see him again, not even in death. Are you sure you want to make this choice?"

Grantaire felt his knuckles burn against the icy floor, his joints whitened by the pressure of his tight fists. He sought Enjolras' features in his memory. Only Apollo's face, so close yet so different appeared.

"Yes!" he shouted. "Whatever it takes! I'll do it!"

Footsteps echoed around him. Grantaire daren't raise his head, by fear of being struck or mocked.

"Rise, Grantaire," Persephone's voice spoke.

It was an order, yet it did not sound like one. Shivering, Grantaire did as he was told. As she gently tilted his chin towards her, the mere mortal realised the goddess was taller than he had thought. He felt like a child with his wet cheeks and tousled hair.

"There's a long way to go, from here to the surface, do you understand that?" she asked.

He nodded faintly, lowering his eyes reverently.

"You will need all your strengths," she whispered. "I am not my husband. I may be crueller than him at times, but your soul doesn't deserve cruelty. I will give you this kindness."

Slowly, she pressed her lips against Grantaire's. It wasn't a kiss, or at least there was nothing amorous in it. It was just as she had said: a kindness. As much as Persephone was the Ruler of the Underworld, she also bore life within her, an energy that flooded from lips to lips, reviving Grantaire to his core. His feet no longer felt sore from the long walk and the thirst that was drying his throat was alleviated. The goddess of spring withdrew with a smile, laughing softly at Grantaire's stunned expression. He tried to say something, to thank her perhaps, himself did not know, but she stopped him before the first word had flown from his mouth.

"May you believe in yourself as much as you believe in him."

She rested a soft hand upon his cheek, lightly caressing the skin. Grantaire only had the time to look into her eyes before the Palace and its Masters faded. The Sun and popping colours assaulted his irises, making him grunt under the brightness. After a moment, he lowered his arm from his eyes and cast a shy glance around. Pasithea's calm face was smiling at him.

"Look at me," she told Grantaire. "There is no looking back now. The only was is forward."

He nodded, wiping the tears off his face. The news went fast, in the Underworld. Perhaps Hades had always known he would accept to release Enjolras. Grantaire wondered how much of the persuasion had come from himself, and how much had come from Persephone in the matter.

"What about my friends? Am I allowed to say goodbye?"

"As if we would let you go without bidding you farewell!" Courfeyrac exclaimed behind him.

It took all of Grantaire's strength not to turn around. He was glad Enjolras wouldn't be allowed to speak, all things considered. It would have made his task infinitely more difficult. He focused on the horizon instead, beyond the arid hills and inhospitable lands he would soon wander through. Feuilly popped into his field of vision, a warm expression on his face. He had always been a warm one, even through exhaustion and indignation. Grantaire admired him for that.

"Take care of yourself," Feuilly said, offering Grantaire one of his heartfelt embraces. "I don't want to see you back here for... At least fifty years!"

Grantaire let out a hoarse laugh:

"You're quite the optimist!"

He patted the spirit's cheek, revelling in the lively skin beneath his fingers. How could they all look so alive? Feuilly stepped aside to welcome Gavroche. The kid had never been one for hugs, so he held out his hand instead, with that pretence of adulthood only he could muster.

"I'll teach you how to skip stones, when you come back," he promised. "Bahorel keeps cheating, the scoundrel! It will do me good to have another adversary."

An indignant huff rose behind Grantaire's back.

"I'm looking forward to it," he assured in response.

He tried to resist, but Gavroche's mane of hair was too tempting. Grantaire ruffled the hay on top of the gamin's head, looking him wiggle and hiss in protest.

Bahorel was next in line, along with Courfeyrac. They both told Grantaire about their favourite places back in Paris and the people they knew there, asking the living to carry out their best wishes to the surface. The list of names was so long Grantaire would have needed to write them down to remember them all.

"If you find our Marius," Courfeyrac said precipitously, "congratulate him for me, will you? Tell him not to worry about what happened to us."

Grantaire nodded, etching the request in a part of his mind. He doubted Marius—if he ever saw him again—would believe a word of his journey, but he promised nonetheless. What harm was there to promise, after all?

Bahorel and Courfeyrac rubbed his shoulders on their way, giving Jehan space to say his goodbyes.

"What a brave man you are, Grantaire," he praised with a smile, taking Grantaire's hand in his. His touch was cold, yet reassuring, like ice on a burn Grantaire did not know he had.

"Desperate times, Prouvaire, desperate times," Grantaire huffed.

Still, Jehan didn't let go. Then again, when did Jean Prouvaire ever let go of anything? He was more stubborn than a mule, beneath his timid looks.

"You're the stuff of epic poetry," he insisted. "I would know!"

Grantaire pulled the poet against his chest, partly to shut him up, partly because his arms ached for it. Jehan held him back, his head comfortably nested against the only beating heart of the group. It was strange, to hold someone without a pulse.

"What do you want me to tell him? Got something for your criminal?" Grantaire whispered.

"I—There's a letter, in my lodgings. It's under the floorboards. I don't know if you'll be able to get it, maybe someone else lives there now, but... If you can, give it to him. It's money, I want him to have it. Tell him not to buy another coat with it, he already owns too many!"

Not matter how hard Jehan tried to conceal his emotion behind humour, Grantaire could see right through the cracks of his voice. He laid a kiss on the poet's forehead. It was his turn to sooth, to comfort.

"He may kill me for it, but I will."

"He'll have to answer to me if he does."

One last squeeze on his hand and Jehan walked away, rejoining the others behind him.

The longest goodbyes came from Joly and Bossuet. There was always something new to say, a conversation that needed closure, a joke they had not told each other yet. Grantaire was more than ready to indulge them. Even if, miraculously, he was to spend eternity in the fields of Asphodel with them, the wait promised to be long and unbearable without their presence.

"Tell my son to listen to his mother, yes? I've never met anyone more reasonable than her, except when it comes to her lovers," Bossuet laughed. "She was extremely misguided in choosing me."

"If the matter has not been settled yet, come forward as his godfather," Joly chimed in, making Grantaire blush.

"Joly, I'm not sure it would be—," he tried to argue.

"Would you refuse to grant the last wish of a dead man?" Joly retorted, crossing his arms against his chest.

Grantaire looked at them both, so hopeful and expectant. Bossuet, who laughed at everything almost to carelessness, was suddenly animated by a joyful earnestness Grantaire had never seen in him. They entrusted him with their son. Him.

"I wouldn't," he sighed in defeat, rolling an arm around each member of the infernal duo, hugging them close.

"Don't let him become a lawyer!" Bahorel shouted behind them.

"If he's anything like his father, that shouldn't be too difficult!" Grantaire laughed, soon followed but Bossuet.

Combeferre was last. Grantaire remembered the long discussions by the fire place at the Musain, the books they had exchanged. They had never talked about the cause, oddly enough. They had mostly focused on astronomy and art. A bit of anatomy, too, if Grantaire's memory served him well. He had always appreciated Combeferre's company. The man was like a well cultivated and diverse garden of knowledge: there was always a corner, a stone to turn, new depths to unfold. They did not talk at first. Their eyes were loud enough. Grantaire offered his arms and Combeferre took them.

"How does he look?" Grantaire whispered, almost fearful of the answer.

A small vibration tickled his fingertips and he knew Combeferre was laughing softly.

"Proud," his friend answered.

Proud. Grantaire's heart leaped in his chest, unable to contain its nervous joy. He craved to see it for himself, but resisted the urge as fiercely as he could. Enjolras, proud of him. That would be a first.

All his friends had taken place behind him. Pasithea was the only one to remain, standing by the bridge she guarded. The goddess looked at Grantaire, then past him, just behind his shoulder. At Enjolras, he thought. If he was standing close, Grantaire couldn't feel him. Hades' words had been true: Enjolras had no scent, no sound, no touch.

In front of him, Pasithea extended her hand once more, expecting her payment. The golden bough lost yet another leaf to her deft fingers. It was nothing but a branch now, still shining under the sun, still beautifully carved, but desperately bare, to the exception of a single leaf. The last one, no doubt, belonged to Charon.

With one last nod, Grantaire set one foot in front of the other and began the journey back. Slowly, the blades of grass became fewer and the road disappeared. Grantaire pictured himself looking back, as a substitute. In his mind, he could see Bossuet holding Joly's waist and Combeferre's head rested atop Courfeyrac's. Enjolras was still in a blur, by his side yet forever absent. Grantaire shook the thought away and focused on the way ahead. His steps soon produced clouds of dust, the powder invading his nostrils, mouth and lungs. Behind him, nothing was to be heard. Silence had never suited Grantaire, especially when he knew he had company. Thus he furnished the conversation, though it was severely one sided:

"The Corinthe still stands, in Paris. I still wonder how. The walls look more like gruyère than anything. I never knew we—you—had so many bullets to spare. To be fair, most of those belongs to the National Guard. People still come to the Corinthe, did you know? I suppose not. Parents, relatives, friends... They bring flowers and candles, most of the time. Jehan would love it! The police tried to stop it, but people still come, even a year later. I thought—I thought you'd like to know that."

No answer. It was to be expected. Grantaire was too nervous to stop now, so he kept babbling and ranting, about the world, Paris, the Underworld. If Enjolras listened, he never gave any signs of approval or disapproval. There was one or two drinking songs, slipped in there, too. The dirt kept plastering Grantaire's mouth as he talked, making him choke a couple times. He kept walking.

He did not recognise anything around him. The landscape had completely changed, though Grantaire was sure he was walking in his own steps. The only way was forward, wasn't it? When he vocalised his doubts, his companion remained silent. Grantaire could not even feel Enjolras' presence, his warmth. Was he even behind, after all? He carved his palm with his nails. No! He was, of course he was. There was no need to doubt. He kept walking.

In spite of Persephone's kindness, Grantaire grew thirsty, so thirsty that he stopped talking. His mouth was dry for the dirt and his tongue woody from the babbling. Around him, a red desert stretched on the horizon, seemingly endless. A cold breeze began to run through his hair. He kept walking.

The breeze grew into a gust, the gust grew into violent squalls. Red sand was flowing everywhere, hitting him harder than hail, infiltrating in his shoes, in his clothes, in his eyes, forcing the mortal to look back. Crying from the sand stinging his eyes, Grantaire resolutely kept his pace steady, struggling against the wind. The pain, however, was perfectly bearable in comparison to the whispers. Carried out by the wind, voices slurred horrors into his ears, mocking him only to disappear a second later, replaced by others:

"Worthless." "Sack of wine." "Good for nothing." "Incapable of living." "Incapable of dying." "Gargoyle of a man."

The tears kept flowing, from the pain or the whispers, Grantaire didn't know anymore. His arm stretched backwards, looking for a hand to hold. It only met void and dirt. Enjolras wasn't behind him. He kept walking.

How long had it been? Hours? Days? Weeks? The sky never changed and neither did the landscape. Grantaire legs were wobbly under his weight. His lungs were dry and his throat inflamed. Poison still flooded through him in the guise of words. The wind was relentless, pushing his backwards at any sign of weakness. Grantaire walked blindly, his feet buried in the sand. It only took a rock for him to trip forward. Grantaire fell to his knees with a choked sob.

"Never loved you." "Never will." "Worthless." "Abandoned." "Left them to die." "Left him to die." "Coward."

His fists shook under the sand, grasping handfuls of coarse dirt to sooth his pain. Suddenly, he perceived something else, beneath the whispers. It was discreet, almost silent. Water. It was water flowing! Grantaire's eyes flew open, looking for salvation. A few feet away, a stream of clear water was flowing gently within the sand. Losing all dignity, Grantaire crawled forward, his mouth burning with anticipation.

"Drunken buffoon."

Panting, he tilted his head, his reflection staring back at him.

"Coward."

He could almost feel the coolness of the water on his lips.

"GRANTAIRE! STOP!"

A trigger response shook Grantaire, sewing his eyes shut. He recoiled, arching over the stream, his chest heaving as though he was going to retch. Enjolras... All out of tears to shed, he let out a heart wrenching lament, his whole body screaming for mercy.

It was the ghost of a voice, a mere spectre, but Grantaire had recognised it instantly

"C—Can you hear me?"

Enjolras had been behind him all along. Grantaire buried his face in his hands in a desperate attempt not to look.

"Can you feel me?" Enjolras asked softly.

A faint pressure, no heavier than the touch of a feather, rested on Grantaire's shoulder. He shivered violently, the contact tearing him apart after a year of grief and remorse. The touched vanished instantly.

"Grantaire?"

Grantaire clenched his teeth, working against himself to break free of his petrifying trance. Slowly, he managed to nod twice.

"I held your hand, earlier. Did you feel it?"

He shook his head.

"I thought—I thought you could not speak," Grantaire managed, his voice hoarse and weak.

"I could. It is you who could not hear me. I have begged you to stop talking for hours! You were wasting your breath. You should have kept your strengths!"

Grantaire looked through his lashes. The stream had disappeared. Both relieved and frustrated, he sat upon the sand, burying his head between his knees. He had shot himself in the foot, talking for hours on end. How stupid could he be!

"I'm sorry. I'm a fool. I don't know why people keep trusting me with their businesses."

The faint caress of fingers began to stroke his back gently. Grantaire tried to bottle up his reactions, but it was hard to focus, knowing whose hand it was.

"You have not failed, Grantaire. You haven't failed anybody."

A raucous and humourless laugh shook him. He felt like he was coughing sand.

"Of course I have. And there is still time to fail you a second time."

The fingers on his back froze, though they did not withdraw. Grantaire knew he had hit a spot, a painful one for him, a simple fact for Enjolras. As none of them spoke, Grantaire marvelled at the silence. The whispers had ceased.

"Why can I hear you now?" he asked, eventually.

He tried to be as casual as he could, but his effort almost cost him dear. Caught up in the conversational tone, he had tilted his head, drawing a movement towards Enjolras. Realising his mistake, Grantaire recoiled instantly, turning his head the other way.

"I do not know," Enjolras confessed. "Perhaps the queen has taken a liking in you. She wouldn't be the first one to do so."

Grantaire kicked the sand next to him. Gods had a strange way to show their appreciation. He couldn't help but to notice the lack of contempt at the evocation of Persephone. Kings and queens had always borne a scornful accent from Enjolras' mouth, as though the term bruised his lips at the mere evocation. Perhaps the Rulers of the Underworld were an exception. Death, after all, was a democratic institution: it came for everybody equally, in due time.

It was a rule that Enjolras, paradoxically enough, would break if Grantaire succeeded.

"It would appear that those gods work in mysterious ways as well," he grunted, pushing on his hands to get up. His eyes lingered on the void spot at his feet, where the stream had been just a minute ago. "What would have happened? If I had drunk, I mean?"

"I was told mortals could not eat or drink here," Enjolras sighed. His hand had slipped away from Grantaire, but the trail was still very much present on his skin. "It would bind you to this place, neither dead nor alive."

Grantaire nodded. Starvation or thirst, he noted mentally. It was a wonder he had even the right to breath the air around him.

"Fantastic," he grumbled.

Reluctantly, Grantaire sought the skyline and the never-ending succession of russet knolls. His eyes met none. The dry hills had scattered to the wind, leaving a clear path in their stead. The sky had darkened above his head, a change Grantaire could not describe as a good omen. The horizon was plunged in obscurity, as though the land had merge with the heavens. Grantaire felt a gentle push against his back.

"You have to keep going," Enjolras encouraged.

The prospect of the darkness ahead had no appeal, but it was the only way to go. Grantaire took a deep breath, pleasantly surprised by the lack of dirt filling his nose. He kept walking.

The obscure cloud was akin to mist: you would see it from afar at first, standing at a distance you'd never seem to reach until you'd look around and realise it had swallowed you whole. Grantaire's vision waned little by little, the light of the sky struggling to soak through the thick veil. Soon, he lost sight of his feet, then of his hands. He would have thought himself blind, hadn't Apollo's gift shone bright in his pocket. It was the only source of light, untouched by the darkness.

Enjolras, who did not feel thirst or hunger, did most of the talking, this time around. His breath was never to be lost, since he didn't have any to begin with. He told Grantaire about Asphodel, the historical figures he had always wanted to meet, finally within his reach. At times, his voice would stop in the middle of a sentence, as though Persephone's blessing had worn out. The first time, Grantaire had panicked, thinking he had broken the pact he had made with Hades. After a few minutes, Enjolras' voice had risen again, faint yet clear against shadows.

"You should rest," Enjolras suggested, after what felt like long hours of walking.

"I cannot," Grantaire argued breathlessly. "Something may come and attack me. It is surprising that nothing has sprung at my throat yet!"

"Rest," Enjolras insisted, stopping Grantaire with a hand on his shoulder. "You can not eat and you can not drink. If you continue without sleep, you will never see the gates of the Underworld alive."

Grantaire bit his lip, weighing the pros and cons of that statement. On the one hand, his legs could use a break and his body was sore, but on the other, the idea of sleeping here, in this void, did not sit well with him.

"What if a beast decides to attack?" he asked.

"I will wake you. I don't need to sleep, but you do."

Failing to find a counter argument, Grantaire complied and lay down. Beneath him, the ground was hard and icy, but it was the only bed he would have. As sleep didn't come easily when one sought slumber in the Nether World, Grantaire lay awake, thinking about the spirit behind him. Enjolras was softer in death than during his life. He was proud, according to Combeferre, proud of Grantaire's endeavour, perhaps of Grantaire himself. The thought kindled a warm feeling in his chest. He could never hope for Enjolras' love, but at least he could earn his esteem.

"Grantaire?"

He shivered. Lost in thoughts, he had not heard Enjolras taking place beside him on the ground. They had rarely been this close, and Grantaire could not even turn towards him to enjoy the intimacy. He could almost feel Enjolras' weak breath tickling his ear.

"Yes?"

"The things you said, back at the Palace, did you mean them?"

A violent cough got stuck in his throat. Grantaire went stiff, his body growing as cold as the ground beneath him. Enjolras had been there. He had heard. He had heard it all. He blushed under the cover of the darkness.

"You were there?" he murmured so low that he doubted Enjolras had heard him.

Fingers groped around him, looking for something. Enjolras finally managed to take hold of Grantaire's hand. The mortal stared straight ahead into the void, incapable of the slightest movement.

"I was," Enjolras said softly. "You could not see me, but I was."

Grantaire could add crippling embarrassment to the list of his torments. Enjolras had heard the tears, the fervant speech, the confession... Grantaire had opened his heart for him to see, though he had not been aware of it at the time. Curse the gods! Curse their traitorous ways! Had he known... Enjolras' hand squeezed his. It was but a light pressure, probably the only strengths Enjolras had, but it was enough to stop Grantaire's train of thought.

"The things you said," he repeated, holding back his words. "Thank you."

None of them spoke after that. Hands clasped in the darkness, Grantaire fell asleep.

Time had no course in the Underworld. Days didn't exist, and neither did nights. When Grantaire opened his eyes, his body was aching from the lack of comfort, but rested. It wasn't another day, it was an endless succession of minutes. Enjolras was nowhere to be felt or heard, but his temporary muteness had become a habit. Promptly, Grantaire got on his feet and continued the journey.

His mind kept wandering back to their conversation. Perhaps Enjolras had decided to spare his feelings and kept the love confession silent on purpose. It felt strange not to talk about the elephant in the room, but Grantaire was grateful for it. Love, even rejection, had to be discussed face to face, and it wasn't a luxury he had, presently. Enjolras had thanked him for his sacrifice, nothing more. Grantaire would lead him out and, if he was lucky enough, Enjolras would keep him in his life. He would be his friend, his neighbour, his acquaintance, his familiar stranger, a face in the crowd, whatever it would be. Knowing Enjolras was alive would be enough.

Patches of light started to pierce through the darkness. Gradually, Grantaire caught sight of his body. He had meandered through the mist for so long he had forgotten he wasn't just another spirit. As to remind him of his living condition, his stomach writhed painfully, waiting to be filled. Even if Grantaire had had the right to eat, he had nothing to feed on. He kept walking.

The dissipating fog revealed silver grass under his feet and tall, bone-white trees around him. The thin trunks were twisted, as though they had squirmed and suffered through decades of torture. Grantaire felt a cold sweat running along his back. Never had a forest felt this macabre.

The trees were spaced enough for Grantaire to find a way. If branches broke and leafs crisped under his steps, he heard nothing coming from Enjolras. Overhead, the crows he had seen on his way to Asphodel were back in the sky, flying in circles like vultures waiting for a bite. Grantaire hurried, his eyes fixed on the path. Seeing its prey fleeing, a crow swooped down on him, going for his eyes. Instinctively, Grantaire drew an arm to protect himself, rushing forward, trying to run in spite of the dead roots sticking out of the ground. A second crow attacked, clawing at his face, pulling his hair to make him look behind. A third came, then a fourth. The murder of crows clung to their title, clawing and piercing him until Grantaire felt blood run along his neck. He did not look back. He wouldn't look back. His legs were like the wind.

The forest stopped abruptly and the vicious birds vanished with a plume of smoke. Rid of those monsters, Grantaire fell forwards, breaking his fall with his hands. Droplets of blood watered the ground.

"Enjolras?" he called, panting.

No one answered. Had he looked? He could not even tell.

"ENJOLRAS?"

His nails dug into the ground, gathering dirt. He had to keep going. Whatever happened, he had to keep going. Taking shaky breaths, Grantaire looked up, ready to face his next torment. He saw a much more familiar sight than expected. A little farther, he could make out the metalwork of the gates and the flow of the Styx, so close he could hardly believe it.

Feeling that the end of the plight was near, Grantaire wiped his face with his sleeve, adding blood to his already murky shirt. He staggered on his feet, his vision hazy from the flight. Almost there. He could do this, he could—

A growl rang in his left ear, paralysing his movement. Grantaire close his eyes out of habit. The growl intensified. Tentatively, the mortal sought the source of the noise through squinted eyes. He regretted it immediately. Three heads were staring back at him, their jaws drooling, three set of teeth bare and ready to tear the flesh off of his bones. Grantaire felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. Of course, he thought, something was missing in the picture. Cerberus did not keep trespassers from entering the Underworld, it forbade them to get out.

Three menacing barks almost threw the mortal off balance. All he could think about was the size of its claws and the sharpness of its teeth. Dogs like to play with their food. Cerberus was ready to pounce and tear him down. It wouldn't be a quick death. Grantaire tried to reach Enjolras' hand for one last touch, but he couldn't find him. His thumb brushed the last leaf of the golden bough through the fabric of his pocket. He froze. Perhaps... No! He needed the leaf to pay Charon! He could not spare—

Cerberus leaped forward and Grantaire's body took over his brain. His hand seized the bough and held it for the multiple heads to see. Instantly, the hellhound stopped, mesmerised. Grantaire would have huffed, hadn't he been terrified. Dogs, all the same. He waved the branch with a trembling hand. The eyes of the beast followed with attention. Without a warning, Grantaire threw the bough as hard and far as he could, watching both his master key and his adversary go at the same time.

There was no time to lose. He sprinted towards the Styx, his sore legs hurting every step of the way. If Cerberus was anything like dogs he knew, it'd want to play fetch. Being pursued by a creature of nightmare was not on Grantaire's agenda. He reached the bank of the river, panting and sweating all he had. He had gathered so much speed that he had to let himself fall on the muddy mound no to fall head first into the water. Except it wasn't water. How could he ever forget the sickening red shade of the flow? It was so thick and viscous Grantaire felt his chest heave. He couldn't even look back to see if Cerberus was coming back.

"You have to swim, Grantaire!" Enjolras urged behind him.

He was back. He was still here, thank God.

"I can't!" Grantaire panted.

"You must! Grantaire, it's coming back!"

Grantaire swallowed hard. He didn't have many options to choose from, it was either the dog or the river of blood. He took a deep breath and plunged his leg into the horror.

A sharp pain flooded through him, flaring from his toes to his knee. The beast could have been gnawing his leg that Grantaire would not have felt the difference. The liquid was an acid bath, attacking his flesh, piercing through the skin and nibbling the bone clean. He let out a cry of pain and a sob, but submerged his other leg.

Moving was the hardest part. The torment was agonising when he was still, but swimming was worst, as though parts of himself were severed with each movement. More than the physical torture, the whispers came back, bubbles bursting at the surface, overwhelming what was left of his sanity.

"You do not matter to them." "Their kind words are a front." "How could they ever trust you?"

Grantaire clenched his jaw and kept swimming as best as he could. He could hear the voice of his father, amongst the filth. He could hear another voice, one he knew well:

"Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying."

He was right. Enjolras was right. Who was he kidding? How could he even entertain the thought of success? He was worthless. He was incompetent. His arms stopped struggling against the flow and he let himself stagnate, his cheeks covered in blood. I should let myself drift away, he thought.

"Grantaire, what I said—," Enjolras pleaded, his voice deformed by horror and panic

"You were right. You've always been right. I'm nothing."

"No, Grantaire, please!"

Around him, the whispered spread their venom harder: "He's using you." "He just wants to reach the surface." "He will never love you." Grantaire gave the bubbles a frustrated splash, burning his hand in the process.

"You meant it," he started shouting, a heavy sob in his throat. "You meant every word of it, don't lie!"

"Yes!" Enjolras confessed. "I meant it! And I was wrong! You've made it all this way! You survived through so many things! I was wrong! Prove me wrong!"

A spurt of energy ran through Grantaire at the words. He gave a kick and sprung forward, letting out a scream. The whispers were still here, but Enjolras' voice covered most of them. For every word of abuse, Enjolras fought back with his own talents, fueling Grantaire through pain and tears.

Grantaire's arms were two inflamed bits of flesh when he attained the river bank. All he had to do now was haul himself onto the mound. The pain was too unbearable to even think of that.

"One last push, Grantaire. You can do this, you know you can!" Enjolras cheered.

Worn out, Grantaire shook his head, defeated. The mound or the far end of the word, same difference, same distance.

"Grantaire, listen to me."

Enjolras' voice was grave. It was the voice of a general, of a leader. He would have galvanised the most sceptical of unbelievers. It was his best weapon. Grantaire could see him, standing in the Musain, fervour and fire spilling from his lips. He could see him...

"You're going to push on your ams. You can. You're strong, stronger than you think. You're not going to do it for me, you're not going to do it for whatever guilt you may be feeling. You're going to do it for yourself. I will not have you rescue me only to die because of me, you hear me? I believe in you!"

His shoulders trembling and his resolve shaking, Grantaire gripped the edge of the river bank. Giving one last cry, he forced on his arms, almost feeling his bones snapping under the pressure. After a second that lasted an eternity, he crawled out of the bottomless bed of the river. The pain lingered, relentlessly stinging him, but he had made it.

A moment passed before he managed to move a single muscle. Weakly, Grantaire sat and brought his knees against his chest. He could still feel the terror biting under his skin. Soft hands rubbed his shoulders and he felt the vague hint of lips on the back of his head.

"You've made it."

It was the kindest whisper he had heard in a while.

"Only because you were there," Grantaire croaked.

"There is no shame in being helped, Grantaire. It doesn't lessen the exploit, it doesn't strip the victory away from you."

How Grantaire wanted to hold him, to look at him, tell him all the things that weighed on his heart and conscience. Not now. Not so close to the goal. They stayed like this for a moment, Enjolras holding Grantaire without Grantaire being able to reprocicate the embrace. The gates of the Underworld were right ahead, wide open, taunting them. Still panting, Grantaire got up. One last time, he thought.

"Shall we?" he asked.

Behind him, Enjolras took his hand.

"Lead the way."

Grantaire did not wake up to light and ever-lasting peace. He woke up to a shabby alleyway and a kick in his leg. Groggy and positively hangover, he groaned against the sting of the sun. It wasn't Apollo's glow, this time. The light of day had finally caught up with him.

"Enjolras?" he grumbled, his tongue coated from the alcohol and dry from dehydration.

"He's dry as dust that one."

Not Enjolras. Grantaire forced his eyes open, looking around in confusion. The owner of the public house was towering him, along with one of his waitresses. Though is was hard to focus, Grantaire took good notice of the gun pointed at him.

"Have you seen―"

"Sod off."

Grantaire would have tried a second time, but their looks added to the bullet bearing his name changed his mind. With an unsteady grip, he held on to the wall, his eyes looking for Enjolras. He was as invisible as before. No, no, no, no!

"Heard me? You'll taste lead if you don't―"

"I'm leaving! I'm gone!" Grantaire shouted, his own voice ringing painfully in his head.

The streets of Paris were waking up. It was another beautiful day, ready for summer. Grantaire walked aimlessly, looking for the soul he had fought for. Looking down at himself, he saw his sleeves only sported wine stains and grime. The blood had disappeared from the fabric as though it had never been there. Had it been there? Grantaire tightened his fists. Yes, yes it had been. All the fear, pain, hunger and thirst, it all had been real, he knew it. It had to be real.

He rushed to the Corinthe and the Musain, his heart throbbing and sinking in his chest both times. He had thought―He had hoped―If Enjolras wasn't there, then where could he be? His splitting headache was driving him mad. Caught in a nervous frenzy, Grantaire kept pacing up and down the Musain, trying not to scream. Images kept coming back to his mind: Joly, Bossuet, Cerberus ready to swallow him in one ferocious gulp, Persephone in all her sublime beauty, Jehan...

Jehan! Jehan and his letter! He could not possibly have dreamt that! Hope was a fragile thing, a dangerous thing even, but Grantaire held on to it tight. He ran out of the Musain, heading for Jehan's lodgings. Whoever lived there now was probably gone to work for the day, anyway. Jehan had given Grantaire a spare key years ago, telling him that if any books interested him, he could come and borrow some at will. If luck worked with him, the new lodger wouldn't have changed the lock.

The latch gave under Grantaire's key, and he felt his heart give as well. Should he come in? Should he really check? He stood by the door, hesitant. Steps in the staircase finally prompt him to enter. The last thing he needed was suspicious glares from the neighbours.

Oddly enough, the lodgings had not changed in spite of Jehan's death. Someone had kept the place alive, watered the plants, dusted the window panes and the tables. Not a single piece of furniture had been moved. Whoever it was, that person wanted to keep Jean Prouvaire alive, in whatever way they could. Grantaire needn't think too hard to guess who that was.

He walked around, pressing his foot on the floorboards, looking for a creak, a board that was weaker than the others. After several minutes, he found one by the bed and his heart hammered against his chest. Every breath he drew got stuck in his throat. Slowly, he lowered himself, nails digging into the thin joint between the boards. It came easily into his hand. Grantaire stared at the wood, gathering himself. A sharp yank later, he pulled it out.

The envelop as there, just where Jehan had left it a year ago. It was covered in dust, but it existed. Grantaire let out a manic laughter out of sheer relief. It was real. All of it was real.

He took the letter and left it on the desk for Montparnasse to read. A part of him wanted to keep it against his chest and never let it go, for it was the sole proof of his journey and the things he had endured. But it would not have been fair. He put back the board and left, his sore body warmed with the flame of hope. If Enjolras was here, he would find him.

His steps led him back to his own lodgings, his mind lost in conjectures and hypotheses. Perhaps Enjolras had been reborn, an old soul in a new body. Perhaps he had ended up on the other side of the world. Perhaps he didn't retain any memories of his past life. Perhaps he was asleep, lying naked on his bed.

Grantaire stood by the door, choking on a gasp that became sob, his whole body going limp. On the bed, Enjolras' chest was filling and emptying peacefully without a care for the world. His body bore no trace of his afflictions, no wounds. It was smooth and graceful, as though each line had been worked and reworked until perfection. He was here. He was alive. Grantaire had to lean against the door not to fall.

His initial stupor fading away, Grantaire took a few shy steps and folded the covers over the naked body. For someone who had been forbidden to glance at Enjolras, the irony was too good not to be noticed. He tucked in the sleeper properly, resisting his urge to pass a hand through his blonde hair. His skin felt warm and when Grantaire brushed over it. He had a pulse. His thumb settled on Enjolras' wrist, just so be sure. There was a rush of life, running through these veins.

The hand moved and before Grantaire could react, Enjolras' fingers had closed around his hand.

"Grantaire..."

"Here, I'm here," he answered precipitously, pressing the drowsy hand against his cheek.

He saw Enjolras' features coming to life, the flutter of his lids, the tentative attempt at speaking. How could he ever forget? He fed his hunger with the sight and quenched his thirst with the torrent of emotions running through him. Combeferre had been right, Enjolras did look proud when he looked at Grantaire.

"I thought I had lost you again," the latter smiled, though his eyes burnt and stung.

"You haven't. You're a better guide than you think."

There was a second of silence during which Grantaire detailed the exact shade of Enjolras' eyes. Time had not erased it, it had just made the colour dimmer in Grantaire's memory.

"What? What is it?" Enjolras asked as the man kept staring.

"Sorry I―It's been so long... You're here."

Saying it made it more real, for a reason he couldn't fathom.

"Thanks to you," Enjolras said, gently rubbing his thumb along Grantaire's cheek.

For once, Grantaire didn't argue. The scathing whispers had been left in the pit. Apollo had promised to heal him, after all. Bringing Enjolras back from the dead wasn't the cure. It was the journey itself. He had done it. Whatever the voices had told him, they couldn't take that victory away from him. He had been through Hell and come back smiling.

He kissed Enjolras' warm palm.

"I'll get us some fresh water, yes? You must be thirsty."

To be fair, his throat was so dry he could only manage a painful wheeze. His headache was still going strong, in spite of the happiness overcoming him. A long day of rest was all he aspired to.

"Grantaire?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you for proving me wrong."

"I proved myself wrong."