A/N: I'll re-check this for errors tomorrow, but I just wanted to get it up first. Thanks for all the reviews on this one, by the way. You're all great, and the reason I keep this writing up!

Disclaimer: I keep putting off revision for this. I wouldn't do that if I owned it now, would I? Hmm? Thought not.

She had been born and brought up in No Man's Land- the sliver of a country created due to Palestine. In the past, people had referred to it as The Holy Land, and many other things. Some said that the Messiah was born there, several thousand years ago.

She was a skilled fighter, although the men still resented her due to the fact that she was of the so-called lesser sex. Her father, however, had noticed her skill, and due to his high social status, allowed her to join the Army in her country. She fought, on the front line, and was not ashamed to say that she had killed several men. Not in cold blood, but for protection or revenge. She would only ever admit that. However, with the uprising in her country and the seemingly never-ending fighting, her father thought it best that she leave for her safety. After all, she was just a… how had he put it? A 'weak little girl'. She had slapped him and left the country by that afternoon. She ended up in Germany, hating every single moment in that hell hole. But she found herself trapped, and all too soon, she was in a country on an Anti-Jew crusade, herself caught up in the middle, innocent. Well, she thought, not so innocent since she'd killed about a dozen people, but that was beside the point. She tried and tried to escape, doing everything she could think of from flirting unashamedly to knocking out a guard or three, but nothing worked. Hitler had her trapped, and she had accidentally caught his attention.

Before she knew it, she had become a prisoner- shackled to a chair, a gag tightened around her mouth. She was salivating due to her inability to swallow, as the disgusting and definitely NOT kosher leather gag slowly became malleable. Eventually, when the guard went out for a potty break, she spat out the skin, tore her ropes apart and jumped out of the window. She ran and ran for hours and hours. She crossed borders but never slowed down. Finally, she slowed down as she crossed the English Channel, alone. She heaved the oars closer and farther away from her body, the moonlight casting pools of light that danced over the water in a mesmerizing way. Continuing to row even when her arms grew tired, she kept on going until her boat ground into the sand on a beach. Clambering out of the little wooden shell, she had stumbled sleeplessly across the grains, not noticing the person who picked her up and took her to London. She didn't notice his piercing ocean-colored eyes, his strong arms that unnecessarily carried her, or the way he stayed by her side until she stopped thrashing in her dreams and actually slept. But she was going to notice him soon.

And as she sits in the cold, dark, Anderson shelter, her legs stretching out across the muddy pool of the floor, her feet resting in a very un-ladylike manner on the unclaimed bench opposite her, she thinks. Not just about the past, but about the present and the future. Whether she'd return to being as happy as she had been before he had left. Whether she'd one day get the dreaded letter, informing her of the worst. She hopes and prays that she will never lay her eyes on such a document. Said eyes gradually became heavier and heavier as boredom and lack of sleep begin to overcome her. Her head tips forward, admitting herself to the darkness.

Suddenly, she jumps, near hitting her head on the tin roof. She grimaces as the all-clear siren rings out through the air, signalling the end of the raid. She stands up slowly, her muscles crying out after being in the same position for however long. Carefully avoiding the large puddle beneath her feet, she tiptoes to the exit. Her eyes narrow as she stepped out, attempting to no avail, to adjust to the early-morning light, which was obscured by fog. She warily walks forwards, only then allowing relief to wash over her at the realisation of surviving yet again. She almost walks into her back door, cursing the blackouts. As she enters her house again, she replaces all but one of the photographs, and decides that it would be better for her to take the purse nearer her bed. Ascending the stairs, her feet shuffling as she tries to gauge her footfall, she lightly pads into her bedroom in the darkness. Wriggling beneath the part-comfortable, part-too-thin sheets, she places the remaining photograph next to her head, and falls asleep with her finger tracing patterns around the wooden frame.