Anguish, the Fatal Rose (Part One)
Les Shaman Miserables
Enjolren opened his eyes as the French sunrise filtered over his eyes. He saw Hitosa sleeping peacefully nearby and jumped up before realizing that nothing explicitly intimate had happened between them. But how he wished something had happened!
Enjolren looked around. Not a living thing stirred, and Enjolren became slightly displeased.
"The people have not stirred," Enjolren scowled. "We are abandoned by those who still live in fear. The people have not heard, but we will not abandon those who cannot hear! Let us not waste lives…!"
People began to stir at the sound of Enjolren's voice. Marioh raised his head off of the ground as Paijean came out from his hiding spot. Meenefeyrac elevated her head off of the metal of the barricade, and Hitosa sat up, her face blood red.
"All the women and fathers of children… go from here," Enjolren told the stirring people.
Norilly was still half-asleep. "Drink with me to days gone by… sing with me the songs we knew!"
"At the shrine of friendship, raise your glass high!" the others joined into their old chant again, much to the odd chagrin yet contentment of Enjolren. "Let the wine of friendship never run dry!"
"If I die," Hitosa added, "I die with you!"
The rebels nodded their agreement with Hitosa as they picked up their guns and powder. The deafening sound of marching began once more, and the cocking of guns became a universal resonance.
Shots fired rapidly. The rebels now knew the horrors of war, and wanted the blood to end quickly. Marioh alone tackled and killed at least fifteen men, but no one slaughtered more of the French army than Enjolren, who was still passionate in his cause, but now had something else to protect. Marioh thought about asking what was so important to him now, but thought better of it.
Finally, the sound of retreating boots filled the air. The rebels cheered happily, but Norilly looked a bit aloof.
"How do we stand, Norilly?" Enjolren asked when he saw Norilly's pale face. "Make your report."
Norilly dumped the remainder of the rebels' bullets into a single matchbox - fifteen shots to be divided amongst more than thirty, to be exact.
"We've guns enough," Norilly murmured, "but ammunition's short."
Enjolren thought for a second. He wasn't expecting this – there were thousands of bullets when the battle was started.
"Let me go into the streets," Marioh offered. Enjolren thought him insane. "There are bodies all around – ammunition to be had, bullets to be found!"
"I won't let you go!" Enjolren snapped immediately. "It's too much of a chance!"
"The same is true for any man here," Meenefeyrac said from her perch on the barricade ledge.
Paijean stepped forward. "Let me go. He's no more than a boy… I am old. I have nothing to fear."
"You need somebody quicker!"
Maroche emerged from the framework of the barricade. No one had any idea he was there, and many people glanced at each other incredulously at each other.
"And I volunteer!"
Maroche leaped over the barricade and into the Parisian street. The rebels all jumped and began to yell at Maroche.
"Come back Maroche!" Chatgles screamed. "Don't you dare!"
"Someone get him back at once!" Opaly demanded.
A gunshot sounded throughout the camp. Everyone winced, fearing the worst.
"Look at me! I'm almost there!" Maroche cried to the rebels, and a collective sigh of relief was heard. Not before long, bullet cases were flying over the barricade. Meenefeyrac caught them in her bare hands as Maroche began to sing triumphantly.
"Little people know, when little people fight -!"
A rapid sting singed his leg. Maroche looked down to see blood dappling his small leg. Even though it spilled slowly and agonizingly, Maroche still threw bullets over to his comrades.
"We may look… easy pickings but we've got some bite! So… never kick a dog just cause he's a pup!"
A throbbing in Maroche's arm proved to be even more painful than the one in his leg. Blood was blossoming like a rose upon Maroche's shirt, but Maroche was not deterred and reached for another box.
"We'll fight… like twenty armies… and we won't give up…"
Maroche grabbed a box and prepared to hurl it over.
"So you better… run for cover…"
Maroche reeled back.
"When the pup grows -!"
Just as Maroche threw the box over, the French army shot him in the head. The ammunition box flew over, and Meenefeyrac caught it.
She dropped it promptly and retched, for Maroche's blood tainted the box indefinitely.
The rebels now knew they had lost another fighter, and began to mourn.
Anguish, the fatal rose, had bloomed.
A/N: Why'd I rename this chapter? Because… I was tired of how many times that Boubil and Schonberg used phrases like Night of Anguish, Dawn of Anguish, Anguish Battle… (Shakes head) So I combined it into two. There you go.
A/N 2: Do you think credits would be appropriate for the end of this…? I just have the urge to write credits.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Shaman King or Les Mis.