Enjolras's boots crunched along the gravel path leading to the stables. He nervously clutched the rough brown bag, knuckles paling. His forehead was sweating copiously, dampening his curls. After debating with himself for a while, he threw the bag over his shoulder for a more inconspicuous look.
A gust of wind blew viciously past, Enjolras pulled his scarf tighter and buried his face into it. Taking advantage of his previously freed hands, he wiped his sweaty palms on his wool overcoat. The sun was starting to begin its descent, casting a faint orange glow across the land. He spied the fence marking the boundary of the grazing grounds for the horses. Enjolras quickened his pace as several horses as well as the stable came into view.
Soon, his walk broke into a sprint as the stable grew bigger and bigger, bag swinging behind him. Huffing out puffs of clouds in the cold air, he pushed back the creaky gates leading into the stable grounds. He paused for a second, hands slipping to his knees as he rested. After a short while, he smoothed up his hair and resumed a comfortable unsuspecting pace.
He froze when he heard dialogue coming from the stables, hands instinctively resting on his bag.
"How many horses have we got left?"
"There's just this one left in here and two out in the fields,"
Enjolras recognized the second voice. Redcoats.
"I hate Javert, bloody git he is,"
"The feeling's probably mutual,"
Enjolras took his hands off the bag. After taking a deep breath, he strolled in.
The first redcoat, whom Enjolras remembered socking in the face, was scooping horse droppings and hay into several buckets.
The second chocolate-curled soldier was grooming the horse. His head snapped up to meet Enjolras's eyes. Grantaire, yes that was his name. The drunken thoughts he had about Grantaire washed over him. Cringing internally, he willed himself to focus. Enjolras cleared his throat and turned away.
"Good evening, sir," Grantaire said in his irresistibly smooth voice.
Enjolras smacked himself internally. Stop thinking about that.
"Good evening," Enjolras responded curtly.
He could still feel Grantaire's eyes shadowing him. Trying to ignore it, he sauntered towards his horse. Unfortunately, Christopher was behind Grantaire's friend. He conveniently knocked over a bucket of dung just in front of Enjolras. Cursing silently, he shot the soldier a piercing glare as he awkwardly maneuvered past, while thinking of punching that smirk off his smug face.
"Where are you heading to, sir?" Grantaire asked.
Enjolras went rigid. His hand closed protectively over the bag's flap as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder.
"Just meeting up with my friends," Enjolras responded. It was technically true.
After finally reaching his horse, he grabbed the saddle from off the wall and set it on Christopher. He fixed on the halter and led Christopher out of the stables. Once they were out in the crisp and chill air, Enjolras masterfully swung onto the saddle, after adjusting his bag for the final time, he shook the reins. Setting a fast speed, Enjolras rode out towards the town center, hair billowing behind him.
The town was absolutely bustling with people. Folks racing to complete their last-minute shopping. Lamp-posts were decorated tastefully with holly and red ribbons. Christmas was almost upon them. People were unnaturally cheerful and all thoughts of revolution slipped their minds. Numerous wishes of "Happy holidays" rang through the air.
He left Christopher at a nearby inn and dropped a few pences into the owner's hands. He weaved through the crowd clenching tightly onto the bag, soon he reached the Musain. Wrenching open the front door, he sprinted between the tables before barging through the back door.
His friends looked up expectantly. In reply Enjolras set the bag onto the table, panting. Courfeyrac rushed to open it, carefully pulling out sheets of folded paper. Combeferre snatched it from Courfeyrac and after an agonizing silence, he opened his mouth and began to read.
"His Majesty plans to issue orders to arrest the most prominent leaders of the revolution," Combeferre raised an eyebrow and continued reading.
"30,000 British troops shall be sent to New York and Boston" Scanning through pages, Combeferre read several select phrases.
"All efforts of rebellion must be nulled before such unfurls into a revolution,"
"Your troops shall be staying at your current location until April," Combeferre smirked at that.
Enjolras jumped up and took the papers.
"These are completely useless," Enjolras said, sighing. "Javert just simply isn't high-ranking enough for actual useful information,"
He gathered the sheets back into his bag and sank back into his chair. All that espionage for absolutely nothing.
"What now then?"
Enjolras frustratingly pulled at his curls. "I still have to return these,"
Everyone nodded in sympathy.
"I suppose the quicker the better, I'll head back now and return these damned letters, and we can meet again Monday, Courfeyrac, try to print some more papers, we should put up some more posters," Enjolras said, as he stood up and picked up his coat.
Everybody mumbled words of farewell as the meeting dissipated.
The journey home was uneventful. Night fell, so people had mostly disappeared from the streets. The lamps illuminated the streets, highlighting the small flutter of snowflakes. Enjolras quickly picked up Christopher and rode home.
Soon, the dark shape of the manor came into view, Enjolras slowed the horse down and started trotting away towards the stable. Strangely, there seemed to be a fire burning near the stable, Enjolras squinted his eyes suspiciously at the dancing spot of warm orange light. Feeling uncomfortable, Enjorlas quickened the pace and hurried his horse towards the fire.
Upon closer inspection, it did indeed turn out to be a bonfire, there was a dark silhouette of a figure standing near it. Enjolras urged his horse to go even faster. The face and body of the figure slowly materialized and he got closer.
The mop of wild dark curls told Enjolras exactly who he was.
"What are you doing?" Enjolras asked impatiently, as he climbed off his horse. The reins were quickly snatched by Grantaire who rushed the horse inside and closed it in one of the stalls.
"What's in your sack?" Grantaire called out from the darkness of the unlit stable.
Enjolras's pulse quickened as he felt his face heating up.
"What sack?" Enjolras knew it was a weak lie.
Grantaire scoffed as he came out of the stables, hand reaching out towards the bag that Enjolras was clutching very tightly.
Enjolras turned away quickly, swatting Grantaire's hands away from the bag.
"Go away," Enjolras said sharply, jumping back, and tightening his grip on the bag.
"It's Javert's letters, is it not? Give it to me," Grantaire said, hurried.
"No, it's not. Now if you'll excuse me, I am very late for dinner," Enjolras snapped, desperate to get away.
A hand on his sleeve pulled him back.
"Javert's on a rampage in there, screaming about how his office was broken into and how he'll stop at nothing to find the burglar. So unless you want to be flayed alive, I suggest you hand over your bag." Grantaire responded firmly.
"How do I know that you wouldn't just turn me in?" Enjolras asked, still not convinced.
Rolling his eyes, Grantaire replied exasperatedly.
"Fine, go throw it in yourself," Grantaire gestured towards the bonfire.
Enjolras walked over towards the fire, not quite fully understanding the situation.
"Quickly," Grantaire added.
Sighing, Enjolras broke into a slow jog. Upon reaching the roaring fire, he snatched the papers out and watched them flutter down towards the fire.
"Won't you get into trouble?" Enjolras turned around and asked.
"I'll live," Grantaire said and he walked towards the fire also.
Why are you helping me? Enjolras wanted to ask.
"How did you know then?" Enjolras asked instead.
"You could learn to be a bit more inconspicuous, y'know? You walked into the stable all nervous and hand on your bag the whole time. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out." Grantaire responded, chuckling.
Enjolras stared deadpan back, before unwillingly cracking into a smile.