(Hello! A slightly longer authors note from me before I start this story. For my Master's Thesis I am doing research about the debate surrounding the representation of the Holocaust in popular media. Writing fiction concerning this subject still is very much criticized. On the one hand people say the subject is too horrible to ever represent. Pretending to be able to do so is called barbaric. On the other hand, witnesses are dying and people want to spread Holocaust awareness. They believe representations are necessary to keep the memory alive. This story is not about the Holocaust per se (as in the massmurder on the European Jewry), but it is connected to it and I do try to touch the subject in a distant, sensitive way. I needed to say this beforehand, because I am not trying to trivialize the subject in any way.

That being said, on to the story!)

Eleven months, seven days and three hours. That's how long it has been since he last saw Enjolras. Since he last saw his best friend, the chief of their group of friends. Eleven months, seven days and half an hour. That's how long it has been since Courfeyrac came bursting through his door, in tears, to tell him their leader was captured by the Gestapo. He later learned that his friend was crammed into a cattle wagon with no less than a hundred other prisoners and transported to a war prisoner camp somewhere in Germany. Combeferre knows exactly how long it has been. He has been counting.

They were supposed to do an easy job that day. Of course, being part of an illegal, underground resistance group was never easy, but the job they were to do had been fully planned and it should have been safe. Enjolras, one of the commanders of resistance groups in Paris, along with Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bahorel was supposed to carry secret luggage along with new planned escape routes for Allied soldiers to the other part of the city. Somehow – and Combeferre still didn't exactly know how – they found themselves in the scheduled café surrounded by German soldiers. Help from their side came the second the fighting started, but the Germans were quick to capture the leader and isolate him from his comrades. According to Courfeyrac, Enjolras was already gone by the time he and Bahorel had fought their way through the chaos.

Combeferre doesn't even know if Enjolras is alive. Terrible stories of life in the concentration camps have reached their ears. No one knows if they are really true - it is impossible to imagine that they are – but the news now comes from reliable sources which are hard to ignore. The news comes from liberation troops and returning witnesses. The news comes from photographs and film footage that secretly finds its way to the French Resistance. And with every little detail, Combeferre feels sicker to his stomach. With every little detail he feels his hope of Enjolras' return diminish.

After Enjolras got captured, his friend's continued in their fight against the Nazi regime and the collaborationist Vichy regime. They took part in guerilla warfare activities, they helped publish underground newspapers, they maintained networks that helped Allied soldiers trapped behind enemy lines. They played a significant role in facilitating the Allies' rapid advance through France after the invasion of Normandy and they celebrated the Liberation of Paris on August 25, 1944, two and a half months after Enjolras was taken. Combeferre fought and celebrated alongside of his friends, but he had lost most of his spirit. The freedom of France was always the highest goal, though somehow Combeferre had trouble seeing it since his best friend was gone.

Combeferre closes his eyes and lies back on his ragged couch. So many memories. So much blood and pain and death. He wonders how life will go on after this. Will everyone simply continue? Will they do anything in their power to guarantee a reconstruction of their wretched society? Will they remember what happened? Will there be help for those who lost everything? Will those who collaborated with the Germans be punished? Will life ever find happiness again? Combeferre sniffs and hugs the photo frame he was holding close to his chest. It contains a picture of himself and Enjolras, when they were still children, living in the countryside of Southern France. He loves that picture, though he can't remember it. He cannot recall a time where he was carefree. He cannot remember a time that wasn't dominated with war and destruction. He cannot remember this Enjolras. The innocent young boy, full of life and curiosity.

There is a soft knock on the door and for a second, Combeferre allows himself to dream that it is Enjolras standing behind it. For a second he dares to hope that his friend has finally returned to them. But when he lays his hand on the knob, he already knows that his dreams are false and his hope is futile.

"Hi, 'Ferre," Courfeyrac says quietly when Combeferre opens the door and steps aside to let him in. "I missed you at the meeting today, so I thought I'd come by and fill you in. If you're up for it, of course." Courfeyrac knows. He knows that Combeferre is spiraling down. He knows that his friend is hardly more than those ghosts of prisoners who return to the country. And he knows that each day that passes without news on Enjolras' whereabouts, weighs on Combeferre's heart like a concrete rock.

Combeferre just nods and goes into his tiny kitchen to make his friend some coffee. He wants to ask again. He wants to ask Courfeyrac if there is any news. He wants to know if they have found their leader under the terribly long lists of victims. He wants to know if he is still missing. He wants to be released of that painful, suffocating grip of not knowing anything. But he is afraid to ask. He fears that this time, the answer will be positive and he fears that he will lose his best and oldest friend for good.

"There's really not that much news, though," Courfeyrac admits regrettably. "It's difficult to get into contact with the government at the moment. They only talk to the commanders of the Resistance, so we thought that we'd let them solve it and focus our attention to the people returning to the city. It's hectic, 'Ferre… So many of them lost their homes, their families. We've opened shelters in some of our safe houses and we…"

"Is there any news on Enjolras?" Combeferre interrupts his friend suddenly. He immediately feels ashamed for not paying attention to Courfeyrac's story, but the question had been stuck in his mouth, just waiting to burst out. When he looks up and sees the tears in Courfeyracs eyes, his heart sinks and he wishes he hadn't asked.

"Yes…," Courfeyrac whispers in a shaky voice, wiping a tear away. He walks towards Combeferre and takes his friend's hand. "We have news… Though we still don't know where he is or what has happened to him. B-But… we have found records… A-And those records show that when he was captured, they sent him to a prison camp in Germany, to Neuengamme. But then six months later he was transferred to Bergen-Belsen, another camp, I believe it used to be a war prisoners camp too..." Courfeyrac swallows and closes his eyes for a second. "The camp was liberated nearly two months ago…"

Bergen-Belsen. Combeferre knows the name and it chills him to his very core. He feels like something has just hit him in the stomach and he has trouble breathing. Two months… That made sense, of course, since the war had ended two months ago, but still. If the camp was liberated two months ago, shouldn't the survivors have returned already? If Enjolras was there… If he was still alive… Shouldn't he be back in Paris by now? He bites his lip and nods. He tries to remain calm, but his world is crashing down hard and he doesn't know how to keep himself from being crushed by its weight. "H-Have… Courf… H-Have others already returned from there?"

His friend gives him an apologetic look and that is really all that Combeferre needs for an answer. He literally feels himself deflate as the last bit of hope he had flies away from him.

Courfeyrac leaves Combeferre's apartment a few hours later, urging him to keep in touch and to not lose faith. But Combeferre feels like a solid statue, deprived from all that makes him human. As if his very heart has turned into cold stone.

He doesn't see any of the Amis for more than a week. He doesn't visit them and he doesn't open his door when they come by. He only shifts a note under the door to tell them he is physically well and just needs some time alone. But he isn't well. Not by a long shot. Combeferre is falling apart and all he sees is death and horror and war.

He lies on his couch now, late in the afternoon, little more than a week and a half after Courfeyrac visited him, and he stares at the ceiling. His mind is blank. He has no thoughts. He blocks his memories. It's easier not to think. His eyes fall closed when he hears a faint knock on his front door. Combeferre feels guilty for letting his friends down like this, but he cannot help it. He doesn't know how to stop himself from spiraling down the way that he does. Another knock has him open his eyes again and he sighs. "I am fine, please go away," he calls out, not missing the fact that his voice cracks in the middle, betraying his words.

It is quiet outside the door and for a moment Combeferre hopes that whoever was there had decided to leave him alone. But then he hears it again and somehow it gets on his nerves. It's a soft knock, almost hesitant, and yet still very compelling. Combeferre frowns and calls out again, firmer this time.

And then he hears it. A voice so faint that it is easily missed. It's a mere breath of Combeferre's name and it sends shivers down his spine, because he knows that whoever he thinks he is hearing, isn't there. His mind is playing tricks on him.

"'Ferre, please open the door?"

A whole sentence this time and Combeferre is crying because this is just cruel. He wants it to stop. He doesn't want to hear that voice. Caught in some sort of desperate delusion, Combeferre lets himself fall off the couch and storms towards the door. He will not have anything or anyone denigrate the image of his best friend. He doesn't want to be fooled. He will not have it.

But tearing his front door open nearly sends Combeferre down to the ground. Because even though the person that stands in front of him in no way resembles the boy he has known since childhood, Combeferre is certain that he is seeing his best friend. He would recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere, no matter how disheveled, malnourished or broken the rest of his body may be.

Combeferre stares and the person in front of him stares back. Then suddenly his arms are wrapped tightly around a far too small frame. He doesn't know who initiates the embrace, although he is fairly sure that it is Enjolras who falls against him, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that he can feel and count every bone beneath Enjolras' skin. He doesn't care he cannot hide his face in the mop of golden curls that was always there but had now been cut away to soft blonde peaks of hair. He doesn't care that he starts crying and he doesn't care he is holding his friend for far longer than he would ever be comfortable with. All he knows at that moment is that he is finally able to wrap his arms around his best friend again. He knows how to do this. He knows how to be the comforter, the protector, the guide.

And Enjolras is silent and still in his grip. He doesn't cry, he doesn't cling and he doesn't break down. All he does is rest his head on Combeferre's shoulder, close his eyes and melt into the familiar and severely missed embrace.

"Don't ask me what happened," he whispers quietly, shakily, in his oldest and best friend's ear. "Don't ask me, for I will never be able to tell you. Nor do I want to."

Combeferre takes the words to heart and tightens his embrace by means of an answer. They stand there in the door opening for a long while. And when Combeferre finally pulls his friend inside and closes the door behind them, he knows who he is again. In a matter of seconds he returns to himself and he knows his purpose in life. Enjolras' return, no matter how broken, meant Combeferre's return.

(I am not sure whether to continue this story or just leave it here, since it touches a sensitive subject and I don't know if I'm qualified enough to breach it. In any case, I would like to know what you think of this, so please review! It would mean a lot.)