AN: I don't own Les Miserables. All of it rightfully belongs to Monsieur Victor Hugo.
Deep breathing. . . . That's the key. . . . . . Deep breathing . . .
A thin sheen of sweat made her pale skin glow under the moonlight, and her hair to stick on her forehead. Carefully shifting his weight with both of her hands, she ran all the way to the one probable place where the people can take care of the wounded.
She stood at the large, iron gate with little, intricate designs of fleur de lis. Behind that gate lies her only refuge and hope for him to heal, to smile again. . .
Grimacing at the pain she will bring upon herself and at the already soaked bandages she wrapped on her torso, she grasped the horizontal bars of the gate and climbed until she reached the top, and jumped down with a light thud.
As she got up, her vision started swimming and she could feel her hands becoming cold and clammy.
I can't back up now! Not when he's this . . . close . . .
Not wanting to give up, she made her way through the pathways until she was at the foot of the stairs at the entrance of the manor. With one hand pressed onto the now more bloody wound, she quietly, and carefully, set down the body near the door. She had helped him to the best of her abilities. Now, it was their turn – her turn – to help him.
She checked his pulse; it was still there, but barely. Looking at the manor, she whispers "I trust you to take care of him." Pulling out a single, blood red rose, she left it lying on top of the body as she rapped on the door loudly - her blood-stained gloves leaving marks on the oak doors - before hurrying away, back into the barricades. She faintly heard the cry of a maidservant to call the others and help the boy.
Hey, I promise that as soon as this whole bloody war's called off, we'll see each other again, k?
Hmm . . . fat chance, she thought feebly as another thought came to her head.
Monsieur Enjorlas, what the bloody hell are you thinking! Keeping me cooped up in here and not helping in defending the barricades would be the cause of my mental instability!
She chuckled darkly to herself, leaning on a large oak tree. Her emerald green eyes - shaded by a blood red Mardi Gras mask and a black top hat - saw the orange glow of a large fire set on the battleground. She was having an inner conflict with herself: to go back wounded, save the others, and possibly die on the way or rest and recover to see him again?
"These bloody efforts of mine better pay off in keeping those two promises." She mutters exasperatedly as she tore off her cloak into another make-shift bandages before running back to the barricades.
Whew! First one XD