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The last remaining tower in the castle keep shook with the force of the cannon blast, and Enjolras winced from where he was bracing the door. After a long moment, he glanced sideways at Combeferre, leaning against the door next to him. “More?” he asked, the single word heavy with the exhaustion that followed a day of heavy fighting.
Combeferre listened intently for a long moment, then shook his head. “I think not,” he said, sounding just as tired as Enjolras felt. “They will wait until light.”
“We are no threat now,” Enjolras said, voicing what Combeferre was certainly thinking.
This was not their first battle together, but the lengthy campaigns of the past compared little to the intense fighting they had faced over the past eighteen or so hours. Enjolras supposed that it was because they found themselves on the other side now, facing an army with more men, better arms, and absolutely no compunction about massacring anyone who stood in their way.
Enjolras and the ragtag group of fighters still remaining had righteousness on their side, but it seemed unlikely that righteousness would be enough to prevail.
Slowly, Enjolras straightened, still on edge in case the barrage resumed. But Combeferre’s prediction seemed to hold, and Enjolras nodded at Combeferre, who also straightened. “Courfeyrac has the watch,” he said. “You should get some rest.”
Combeferre gave him a tight smile. “I will sleep when you sleep.”
Enjolras snorted, about to retort when Bossuet dashed up, his face pale even in the flickering torchlight. “Enjolras,” he gasped, and Enjolras reached out to steady him, searching his face.
“What news?” he asked urgently.
Bossuet swallowed, glancing at Combeferre before looking back at Enjolras. “Grantaire,” he said, and Enjolras felt as though the floor had dropped out from under him.
“Where?” he managed, his grip on Bossuet’s arm tightening. “Where is he?”
Bossuet jerked his head and Enjolras hurried after him down the darkened passage. He knew better than to ask for specifics, had known it since Prouvaire had perished at the hand of their enemy, the first blood spilled but without doubt not the last. And now, Grantaire—
Enjolras’s chest was tight and he barely even noticed that he was shaking as he stumbled in Bossuet’s wake, reaching out to steady himself against the stone wall. All too soon, they arrived at what Enjolras recognized vaguely as a storeroom, and he almost made a jest about Grantaire guarding the wine, but the look on Bossuet’s tongue stayed his tongue.
Instead, he took a deep breath and stepped inside.
It was even darker in the room than the hall, a single torch casting eerie shadows against the wall, against Joly, crouched next to—
“I am here,” Grantaire said, looking up at him from his prone position on the floor, and Enjolras gripped the wooden door post to keep himself upright.
“Grantaire,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper.
Grantaire’s back was propped against the wall, his hands pressed to his chest, and even in the dim light, Enjolras could tell that his fingers were stained with blood. “I am sorry,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras shook his head automatically.
“Do not say that.”
Grantaire grimaced. “I have failed you.”
“Never,” Enjolras breathed.
A ghost of a smile crossed Grantaire’s lips. “Not even at the Barrière du Maine?”
“Not even then.”
Grantaire coughed wetly. “Not even by dying?”
Only then did Enjolras move, dropping to his knees next to Grantaire. “Do not say that,” he said fiercely. “You—”
“Enjolras,” Joly said softly, and Enjolras closed his eyes, knowing what words Joly need not say.
Grantaire smiled again, his teeth flecked with blood. “Not even your belief can save me now,” he murmured.
Enjolras swallowed back the tears he could feel burning in his throat, reaching blindly for Grantaire’s hand, the slick blood turning his calluses soft against Enjolras’s skin. “Grantaire—”
“I must ask you for a favor,” Grantaire said, coughing again.
Enjolras squeezed his hand. “If I can grant it, I will.”
Grantaire searched his expression for a long moment. “Let the last thing I see before I go to the halls of our fathers be your face. Please.”
“No,” Enjolras said sharply. “I know what you are asking of me, but I cannot. Not—” HIs voice broke. “Not by my own hand.”
“By your hand or any others’, my fate is sealed,” Grantaire whispered. “I beg of you, let me go in peace, and with what little joy I have ever known.” He attempted to squeeze Enjolras’s hand. “My truest love, please.”
On any other day, under any other circumstances, Enjolras would have chided Grantaire for speaking so freely of their most closely-guarded secret, even if he trusted the men in the room with them with his life. But Enjolras knew that even if he lived through the battle ahead, he would still find his fate at the end of a hangman’s noose. It mattered not now for what crime.
He bowed his head, choking back tears, and felt Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder. “Enjolras, the keep is overrun,” he said, his own voice shaking, just slightly. “We are surrounded. If we are to have any chance, we must fight through the weakest point of their ranks, and to do so, we cannot bring him with us.”
There was no chance of that happening either, but Enjolras did not dare say that aloud for anyone who still had hope in their hearts. He looked instead at Grantaire, struggling now to breathe. “Enjolras,” he whispered. “For the sake of those you love most, you know what you must do.”
“You think I do not love you most of all?” Enjolras asked, his voice tight.
Again, just the hint of a smile crossed Grantaire’s face. “No,” he said simply. “Not when compared to those who suffer in this world, to those for whose freedom you fight. And you know this. If it was anyone else, you would not even hesitate.”
“But it isn’t anyone else.”
Grantaire nodded tiredly, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he again spoke. “And that is why it must be you.”
There were so many arguments that Enjolras could make against that, if only he had the time. If only this were just another late night that left him and Grantaire sitting in front of the dying embers of the fire, trading arguments with each other before moving the argument to one of their chambers. If only Grantaire was grinning up at him with that usual sardonic smirk, the one that practically dared Enjolras to kiss it from his face.
But it wasn’t.
And it never again would be.
Grantaire’s breathing was even fainter now, his grip on Enjolras’s hand so faint that Enjolras almost couldn’t feel it at all, but when he spoke again, there was steel in his voice. “Strike hard, and strike true, my love. And when at long last you lay down your sword, I will find you in the halls of victory where there is nothing that will again part us.”
“I love you,” Enjolras told him, with just a hint of desperation.
One last smile, just for him. Grantaire would never know how brave he had been, here at the end. “I know.”
“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, his voice pained. “It need not be you, any one of us could—”
“Let me alone,” Enjolras said harshly, already gripping his blade. “It must be done.”
Combeferre bowed his head before helping Joly up from the floor, both men stepping outside to give Enjolras and Grantaire such privacy as they could.
Enjolras looked at Grantaire, everything he wished he could say flooding through his mind. But they had said all they needed to, and far more in everything they had left unsaid.
In the end, there was only one thing he needed to ask, one last question he needed answered, so that he too could go to his death with some semblance of peace. “Do you permit it?”
Grantaire nodded, just once, his eyes never leaving Enjolras’s. Enjolras’s blade found its mark, and Grantaire gasped, just once, before his eyes closed forever.
Enjolras sat silently for a long moment before leaning forward to press a kiss to Grantaire’s brow. “Be at peace, my love,” he whispered.
And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras’ marble cheek.