AN: Apologies for the wait! But it looks like I will have to switch from weekly updates to biweekly. There was just not enough time in one week to churn these out anymore. And I hope to never keep you waiting longer than two weeks. Please slap me if I do. This new schedule is working great for my beta and I... and my sleep as well. I hope biweekly updates are okay with you all too. Please feel free to check in anytime if you have questions or just want to prod me about my progress haha. You've all be amazing so far! Truly, thank you. :)
Chapter 11
The Lies We Spin
Hartsville is a charming mill town consisting of a few hundred people or so. They pride themselves in their homes. Row upon row of large brick estates line the surrounding hillsides of the town center. The smell of fresh cut wood still lingers in the air about the lanes, proof of the recent construction of the large veranda porches wrapping around the homes. The sudden prosperity of the town is most evident in the young oaks planted out front the households. The small trees, once full of fall leaves, are now bare as they sway in the chill winter air. Snow has yet to fall but the people of Hartsville expect it soon.
Just as they expect for more Northern troops to join the regiment currently posted in what can only be described as their back yards. The town's folk pity those living upon Herod Lane. Behind the houses of the southernmost, and once picturesque landscape, lays the northern encampment, the tents very much intruding upon their properties.
The locals are neither welcoming nor put off by the Federal settlement. It was expected, really, for their town to play host for yet another winter. So long as skirmishes are kept from their town center, and their daughters from the wandering eyes and ever more so wandering hands of the young soldiers, they are otherwise indifferent to the Northern regiment's proximity. If only it weren't such an eyesore, they think, as the families of Herod Lane sit in their homes and stare out past their elegant verandas at the tents pitched just down the hillside.
The North have built nothing more than a shoddy winter encampment poised a few hundred feet from the Cumberland River. Less than a dozen cabins stand in the middle of the seemingly endless tents; more effort and time spent to bring comfort to a select few of the regiment than to the soldiers who will be sure to freeze inside their small canvas shelters. It's a fact that brings much distress to Santana as she and her father unpack their belongings inside one of the single room cabins. It's smaller than their previous tent by at least half, the space so confined they find themselves constantly brushing against the other as they carry out their work.
She dreads the coming weeks they are to spend confined in such close quarters. Their beds are separated by a mere foot of space. Their once full bathing trough is now relegated to a quarter of the size and pushed beneath her father's writing desk for space allowance. He's already filled the entirety of their lone bookcase with his possessions, leaving Santana to stuff hers beneath her cot instead. As she sits down upon the bed she can feel the books, cases and kits prodding against her spine.
She thinks perhaps Brittany's cumbersome bedroll is for once the better option.
"This is madness," she can hear her father grumbling every time he attempts to wedge another of his materials into the bookcase.
She merely rolls her eyes before staring once more out the tiny window placed just a foot from the low hanging roof. The sky outside is a stormy mix of whites and greys, the clouds so thick in the heavens they form a smooth blanket clear across the horizon. Santana cannot reach the pane to press her fingertips upon the glass, but she is sure if she could the window would be cool to the touch.
They've moved further south and yet somehow the bite of northern winter winds has followed them. Inside the cabin though, the warmth is becoming unbearable— most of it, Santana knows, attributed to the craze her father is displaying as he scuttles about in a steaming cloud of his own repressed rage.
He'd, naturally, been affronted and annoyed upon receiving their lodging assignment. Their cabin was by far the smallest, not only in space within but also in height. A fact Santana had found increasingly amusing as her father ducked to enter the doorway only to find he could stand fully erect once inside whilst the Colonel and Quartermaster stood with spines and heads bent to accommodate their statures. They'd apologized of course, attributing the cabin as a fluke; it was the first that had been constructed before a better team was charged with the rest.
"But she'll do you just fine," Colonel Wright chuckled, knocking with his fist against the slanted roof. "Sturdy, good wood. You'll keep high and dry come first snowfall, something many a soldier here will gladly give an arm for soon."
"The cabin is satisfactory," Dr. Lopez told him with a tight-lipped grin from beneath the unshaven beard now sprouted upon his face. It was a hideous sight to behold, Santana thought, all black and peppered with flecks of grey. He scratched at his cheek as the Colonel and Quartermaster gave approving nods before taking their leave.
Her father's eyes now land upon the trough tucked beneath his table. "Absolute madness," he mutters again.
With the small fire extinguished in their equally maddeningly small stove, she and her father take off for the medical tent. Introductions are in order and they hasten in their steps so as to not arrive late. The tent is but a few yards down the lane from their cabin. They almost walk clear past it until Santana spots Michael out front, waving her over.
The medical tent, or as the soldiers here have deemed it, the field hospital, is smaller than their last yet expected to accommodate an encampment three times the size. The only solace Santana takes from her afternoon tour is that there is already a senior Major placed in charge of the medical operations. Her father will have to swallow his inflated pride and take orders from another for once in his life.
Though as she carries out her chore of folding down more clean bed sheets she doubts he will have any trouble taking out his frustrations on that matter upon her. So long as they are upon her and not focused toward Brittany, Santana thinks she can handle whatever her father feels need to lash at her. She's endured his existence, his insults and hand for twenty-two years; she knows she will continue to do so for the entirety of their stay in Hartsville.
As for Brittany though, she hopes the courier is finding her day unfolding far better than hers. She hates to imagine Brittany struggling, especially given the woman's perchance for confusion and in an encampment so large too boot.
It's a thought similarly spinning through Brittany's mind as she helps Burt to distribute the crates from within the mended armory cart. She can't quite believe the sheer size of the encampment. Even from atop the hills as they'd arrived she could not see the end to the tents spread out down the field, some even encroaching upon the line of trees flanking the river below. If the southerners wished to ambush them as a small contingent had in Tompkinsville, she knows it will not end well for them in such a cloistered camp. One well placed round of cannon fire will be sure to down at least twenty men.
The thought brings a shudder to her even now, all these hours after the image originally passed through her mind.
"Last one, Bret," Burt says, voice strained as he hauls another crate into his arms. He gives her a pained smile as he tells her, "Then ya can go set up your tent."
Brittany takes the crate from him, knees almost buckling under the sheer weight. Burt moves to relieve her from it but she gives a shake of her head, hefting it higher in her arms and she ducks inside the armory tent. She knows quite well the strain upon Burt's face is a direct reflection of the ache his leg is giving him. It's been acting up as of late and Brittany worries for him even though Burt is adamant as he tells her otherwise.
"It's all this moving," Burt always says, waving off her concern. "My old man knees can't keep up with all you young lads."
She hopes he's right, and that it isn't something too serious. She makes note, reminding herself over and over again as she walks down her assigned lane with her haversack slung across her back to mention Burt's leg pain to Santana. She'd be sure to know what to do, if anything can be done, to make sure Burt keeps himself well and good.
And as Brittany begins to unwind the canvas material from within her sack she wonders more upon the date. How many days has it been, she thinks, since she last sent her letter home? A frown mars her features as she pulls the posts out next. She's forgotten the days, unsure now of when Emily will receive her letter let alone when a response might arrive. It's a thought that plagues her as she begins to set up her tent.
The second attempt she makes goes decidedly smoother than the first in Tompkinsville, she thinks. Though halfway through Beiste finds her struggling and in a matter of minutes constructs the entire thing herself without so much as breaking a sweat. Regardless, Brittany deems the construction a success.
It is the last success she feels she'll have for a long while down here in Hartsville, especially with thoughts of home now running rampant in her head once more.
November 28th, 1862
It's taken little more than a week for the routine of the new camp to settle in with the regiment. Many a friend has been reunited and spirits are decidedly high for what is sure to be a harsh winter.
It is a fact Santana is apt to comment upon whenever a rather strong gust of frigid air blows past. She huddles closer beside Michael on the bench their share, holding her bowl of soggy, yet blessedly warm, cornmeal up near her chin. The steam washes over her face, her once chilled skin welcoming the warmth greedily.
Michael chuckles, watching as Santana's eyes close and she lets out a delighted hum of a sound. "I don't think I've ever seen you quite so delighted by cornmeal."
"Shush," she tells him, still very much absorbed in the heat radiating from the rapidly cooling bowl. "My breakfast and I are sharing a moment."
"Share with it any more and I'm afraid you'll be needing the privacy of your cabin."
Santana keeps her hold on the bowl as she opens her eyes and stares over at Michael through an annoyed slant. "There is only one person allowed to tell such horrid jokes and the last I recall your name is not Sam Evans."
Michael nudges her shoulder, giving a shake of his head as he says, "It wasn't a joke. Consider it my medical opinion."
"Which is also horridly off," Santana says through a wry grin. "Now pass me some sugar; if I am to eat this it will need to pass as marginally edible."
He does so, chuckling as she expels a great deal more of the precious camp commodity upon her breakfast than he is sure she actually wanted to. Nevertheless Santana eats her cornmeal, cringing only a few times at the taste. After a few bites the meal turns lukewarm, her spoon prodding down into the slop as she picks around for a decent looking bite.
"Do you ever worry for her?" Michael asks as a lull settles in their conversation. Santana raises a brow at Michael, chewing slowly upon her meal. He nods his head toward Burt's tent across the way where Brittany is readying a small table and stool for herself.
"I do," Santana replies, hoping her tone conveys no more than but an ounce of the true worry she feels everyday for Brittany in this large camp.
"We've never much talked about it, you and I," Michael tells her quietly. "But she's told me why she's here. I can't lie; I find what she's done incredibly courageous. It's noble, but also stupid."
Santana bristles at the remark. "And who are you to talk?" she questions. How can Michael sit there and pass judgments upon Brittany when he sacrificed to be here as well? She's about to say as such but Michael speaks up once more.
"I can't say I wouldn't have done the same," he relents, knowing full well the heated glare she is currently burning into the side of his head is only formed from the best of intentions. He turns to her, hoping to quell the temper he does not want unleashed upon him with a soft smile as he says, "I admire her really, knowing now. It takes a brave person to do as she's done."
"She is," Santana nods, relaxing more beside him. She pushes her spoon around in her cornmeal, quieted once more.
Michael decides to press the matter further. "But you must agree it is foolish of her to think she can carry on as Bret. Especially here."
Santana lets out a tired sigh. "No one has been the wiser thus far," she tells him, though even he can hear the bit of fear leaking into her voice at the statement. She cocks her head to the side, a thought suddenly striking her as she looks up at him through curiously squinted eyes. "How were you able to tell anyway?"
"Her wrists," Michael grins, sweeping his hand from within his long sleeve and turning it in very much the same way Santana has seen Brittany do on countless occasions. During countless shared waltzes. Her stomach drops. Who else could have noticed? "She dances very well as a man but her wrist flourish is admittedly feminine," he explains, oblivious to Santana's sudden horror-struck expression. His own expression is focused upon Brittany. He watches as she sits down on the stool and begins happily digging through a bag on the table before her. "And looking at her now I can't see how I could have ever thought her anything but a woman."
"People see what they want," Santana brushes his comments off, scooting a bit from him on the bench. It's a move Michael notices and feels a might upset over. He hopes to have not offended her in some way. It is something he seemed to be in constant pull with his wife, Tina, over as well. What could he have said now, he wonders. But Santana notices not his discomfort, her eyes riveted on Brittany as she tells him, "No one really pays her much attention aside from Burt." A familiar biting laugh carries down the trodden grass lane. Her gaze finds him quick enough and she is even quicker to add, "And, unfortunately, that one."
Michael need not even ask for clarification. He follows her line of sight to the man surrounded by a small group of fellow soldiers. "I take it that is Scott Cooper," Michael says, frowning as he notices the man catching Santana's eye. Cooper hesitates, pausing mid-step.
"The horrfyingness is a wonder even from a far," Santana all but growls out.
Michael's heard his name in passing, though often more so in a string of colorful curses and damnations. He's curious as to what the man could have done to, for lack of better word, enrage Santana so. That seemed something only her father was capable of doing and thus he must inquire, "What's he done?"
Santana breaks her glare with Cooper, turning to Michael as she says heatedly, "Aside from nearly having Brittany killed?"
And that's all Michael need know for his own brow to lower over his eyes as he stares at the despicable man's retreating back. "How is it he's still here after pulling such a stunt?"
"Your answer is as good as mine," Santana says, hugging her arms close as a particularly unpleasant chill breeze rolls through the camp. Michael offers use of his coat but she declines. She'd left hers in the field hospital and reckons she'll be back in that stuffy tent soon enough. "No one can prove he's done a thing. Burt's tried to approach the Captain but nothing's come of it," she sighs, both bitterly objected and tired of wasting any more breath discussing the matter. "But you needn't worry about him any longer," she says, a distinctive finality to her tone. Michael also can't help but notice the smirk upon her lips as she tells him, "I've set him right."
"Dare I ask what you did?"
Santana sits up straighter upon the bench, smiling as she says, "He knows, that's all that matters."
"Shit morning to you both!" Noah greets them with a wide grin, in his hand a steaming bowl of bland cornmeal. He saddles up to Santana's side, pushing her down the bench with a solid shove of his hips.
"Puckerman!" she groans, elbowing him just below the ribs. "Learn some damn manners already."
"Aw," Noah pouts, nudging Santana gently as he slips a heaping spoonful of cornmeal into his mouth and speaks through full cheeks, "Bu' 'en who'd I gef my fu' fom?"
Santana stares at him, incredulous.
"I don't think it's too bad," Michael speaks up, leaning over the table so as to thwart what he assumes is Santana's mounting exasperation. "The morning, I mean," he clarifies when Noah raises a brow high on his forehead.
Noah swallows down his mouthful of cornmeal. Santana's once exasperated expression turns toward disgust at his display. He ignores her, leaning past her on the table to carry on the conversation with Michael. "We're in the midst of Tennessee," he says, jabbing down on the table with his index finger. "The only way this morning could be better is if there were a fine lady atop my lap."
"If you so much as glance my way, Puckerman…" Santana warns gruffly.
"I ain't lookin' at you, Santana," Noah tells her, giving Michael a disbelieving look before he smiles up at the still, very much so, peeved woman. "You're right and taken."
Santana's stomach drops for the second time that day.
Michael lets out a sputter of surprised noise. His grin is wide as he sits back upright, looking down at her with delight as he says, "I didn't know you were engaged, Santana."
"Ha! Engaged!" Noah exclaims through yet another mouthful of cornmeal, dispelling some upon the table with his outburst. Santana shoots a silencing look toward him but Noah is too busy brushing the mess from the table to notice as he says, "Bret hasn't the nerve to ask her."
Santana gives Noah's shin a right hard kick and he chokes on his meal, coughing as he looks up at her, confused by the sudden abuse. On her other side Santana can feel that Michael has grown incredibly still. She fears the look she might find upon his face; what he must be thinking!
Her voice has grown thick, throat tight as she turns toward him. "Michael," is all she manages to utter as she meets the look of disbelief upon his features. His eyes are unfocused, staring just beyond a spot on her shoulder. She feels her skin warming beneath his gaze; the feeling radiates quickly through her entire body. He knows, is all she can manage to repeat in her head, pathetic and fearful.
"I… I believe I am needed in the field hospital," he rushes out, hastily standing to his feet. He cannot meet her eyes; there is no misunderstanding what Noah has just divulged. The impossibility of it only confirmed in Santana's tone. What Michael cannot understand, though, is why. With shaky hands he brushes the nonexistent crumbs from his slacks, head turned toward the medical tent as he says, voice betraying his disillusionment, "I-I'll see to it your s-station is ready… upon your arrival."
And with that he takes off in a brisk walk straight for the tent he hopes will keep him from the disturbing thoughts of what he also now hopes is all just a cruel prank.
"What sank its grubby southern teeth into his behind?" Noah mutters aloud, watching Michael retreat.
Santana slaps him hard across the shoulder. "Have you any idea what you've just—" she halts her angry words, realizing the puzzled and exasperated expression now forming across Noah's face is very much warranted. She can still feel her heart thudding painfully against her chest, knowing she must set things right with Michael. Her mind spins a thousand lies, ways in which to assure him what he heard was nothing but a jest. She calms some as she starts to believe in those sentiments. When she nudges Noah this time, it is more demurred, her tone softened as she berates, "Learn to quiet your damned mouth, Puckerman."
Noah doesn't think he'll ever quite understand women. Especially the likes of Santana Lopez. He's sure at least a dozen some emotions and thoughts just spun through her head, all conveyed upon her face as she sat quietly beside him. But in this matter he cannot hold his tongue. "I can say whatever I damn well please, Santana," he tells her hotly. "We're the free ones in this land." And then softer yet, "I can't wait to get back North."
"You knew this day was coming," she tells him, inhaling deeply, hoping the cool air will calm her nerves.
"Don't mean I have to like it any less," he grumbles then jabs with his spoon over in the direction of Burt's tent. "Though Bret seems to be having a fine time adjusting to this hell."
Santana looks over, entirely unsurprised and yet charmed to find Brittany attempting to put a pair of over-sized socks on Piedmont.
"At least he's ceased with the scarves," Noah chuckles. "I really could use me some new socks though. Bet he's made you a cozy pair."
Santana's cheeks flame as she exclaims, "there is nothing between Bret and I!"
"There is an' frankly I'm sick of the way you two keep trying to hide it," Noah tells her, stuffing yet another heaping spoonful of cornmeal into his mouth. "There ain' nofing wrong wif gettin' some love."
Santana grabs him by the collar, pulling him close to her face as her eyes burn into his and she hisses, "listen to me, you hedonistically deluded ass, speak of this matter again and I'll ensure it be that last time you ever do so."
Noah pushes her away, scoffing. "You wouldn't dare touch a hair on my head. Stop actin' like such a Cooper," he grumbles, albeit his tone resigned. He looks over at her, sighing as he finds her unable to look in Bret's direction let alone calm the tremors he can see in her clenched fists. "Why is it so hard for you to just accept how you feel?" he asks her quietly.
"There's nothing to feel," is Santana's adamant response, her gaze focused upon her half-eaten meal. She can feel her heart, stomach, entire being twisting as she tells him, "I am not in love with Bret Pierce."
"I ain't never said you were," Noah smirks.
"Ain't never said you were?" Santana repeats, aghast. She stares up at him, heart still very much pounding against her ribs even as she tries to feign exceeding abhorrence at Noah's language butchery. "Do you even listen to yourself speak?"
"I happen to love my voice," Noah boasts, chin held high. "All the women I've ever met, aside from you, find it irresistible."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Were those women perhaps also deaf?"
"Look, I don't have to sit here takin' this bullyin' from you," Noah says, once more growing concerned. "The matter is you are ashamed of being with Bret and he don't deserve it."
"For the hundredth time, there is nothing between us," Santana growls out.
Noah lets out a defeated and tired breath as he stands to his feet, collecting his meal as he does. "You keep lyin' to yourself, Santana," he tells her, voice none too accepting. He looks up over at Bret, happy to note the courier is none the wiser to the conversation that just took place. When he looks back to Santana he can see the relief upon her face as she realizes the same. It angers him, how she can act so unaware of her affections for such a good man. With bitterness even he's surprised to hear in his tone he tells her, "It's no wonder he doesn't eat with us anymore. Fix this."
He takes off before she can even form a reply, his steps loud and hard upon the cold ground. Santana watches him leave, wondering just how her morning came to spiral into chaos so quickly. She hasn't even the time to debate which man to chase after first when she notices Burt approaching. Yet another man in Brittany's life I am sure to disappoint today, she thinks wryly to herself. Burt gives her a friendly wave as he makes his way over, the limp in his step a might more pronounced than typical. Brittany had mentioned it to her during the last few nights, requesting Santana's help on the matter. Santana thinks the cold may be cause to blame. The older man's joints obviously not faring for the better exposed to the chilled air for so long.
But it is nothing too serious, if he is still able to get around as he clearly is now.
"Good morn to you, Miss Santana," Burt smiles as he comes to stop beside the doctor. In his hands he extends a small envelope to her. "The express carrier arrived early today and I thought I'd give the poor boy a hand. I believe this is for you."
With a look of surprise upon her face she accepts the letter Burt hands to her.
"I've never received post," she whispers, eyes rooted to the small envelope in her hands.
Burt's heart goes out to the obviously astounded doctor. He can't imagine what it must be like, to have no one with which to rely upon let alone an ear to hear your thoughts. It's clear to him now that her mother must be as unfit a parent as her father. He feels the same could be said for whatever other family she has. How could she have no one to write her from home? How could no one care for her?
He can see Bret from the corner of his eye, worrying the pair of socks between his hands as he watches Santana hold so longingly to the letter. He hopes Santana realizes that even if there is only but one person writing to her now, that there are two people in this camp who would very much like to send her letters every week. It's a thought Burt knows he shares with Bret, if the boy's concern now is any indication.
"Here's to hoping you get more of these," Burt tells her softly. "And even if that don't turn out true, know there are those of us here who consider you as close to family as it gets."
She gives him a nod, swallowing hard as she clutches the letter close to her chest. Burt leaves her then, hobbling down the lane with a few other letters held in his hand.
Santana hadn't the will to turn the letter while Burt was standing close by. She was too afraid to see just whom it could be who's written her. So when Hendrick Pierce's neat penmanship meets her eyes she can't help but let out a gasp before she quickly tears the envelope open. Her stomach is a flurry of knotted fears as she shakily unfolds the letter and begins to read.
Lima, Ohio Oct. 19th 1862
Dear Miss Santana Lopez,
I haven't the words to express to you my gratitude at receiving your two letters. I find myself fumbling with this pen even as I sit to write you now. Whilst the greenbacks contained therein were a most generous gift I must admit it is your words that have brought this family the greatest joy we've had since Bret's enlistment. All I can hope is that you accept the sincerest of thanks from a comforted father. I am thrilled to hear of Bret's good health, as is Emily. Please do tell him how she smiled so when I relayed your hopeful words. Also know I have taken your advice to heart and am doing all in my power to ensure Emily has the best of care.
You truly are a kind soul, and the greatest of confidantes I could ever hope for my son to find. He is a good boy, a bit absentminded as you mentioned but well intentioned and carries the biggest of hearts. We worry for him, every minute of every day. But it is lessened now that we know he has you to trust in. Tell him we miss him so and send him all our love. We send you our love as well, and prayers to those currently in your care. You may not esteem yourself enough to carry the title upon your name but you are a doctor, Miss Santana. Do not ever doubt it. It is because of your instruction that Emily has been fairing better these past few days. This family owes you everything. I owe you everything. You've given me my world back. I cannot thank you enough and nor shall I ever stop.
Humbly and sincerely yours,
Hendrick Pierce
Santana does not realize the tears in her eyes until a few of them drop down to the letter held so fondly in her hands. Air rushes quickly into her lungs, the sting of the cold pricking at her throat and bringing her immediately back to the present. As she read she could vividly imagine Hendrick's voice, someone she's never heard yet knows so well already. His tender words now settle warmly in her heart as she rereads his letter for a second time. Through her tear-filled gaze she can see Brittany, still desperately trying to get Piedmont to lift a leg. One of the socks she so thoughtfully sewed for him is clenched between her teeth; another two are thrown haphazardly over her shoulders.
Santana feels her chest constrict painfully. The longer she stares, the shorter her breaths seem to come. The father of this woman feels indebted to her; indebted to the very person pushing Brittany away. Hiding her. So that they don't hurt her, she tells herself. So that one day they can go home, together. To Hendrick and Emily, to a family that no doubt cares for both of them. For her.
Overwhelmed, Santana finds herself on a hurried path straight for Brittany. Brittany, who lets out a surprised squeal as Santana grabs her by the back of her shirt collar and tugs her inside Burt's tent. Who then then lets out another, albeit more muffled, yelp as warm lips tasting of sugary cornmeal quickly capture her own chapped ones. A hand and what feels like paper press against her cheeks as Santana kisses her with an intensity she is still trying to place. It's urgent, and certainly impassioned. But Brittany's eyes remain wide open for it is also very much day beyond the darkened interior of Burt's empty tent.
Upon the brush of Santana's hand across her jaw, as the doctor's fingers settle against the nape of her neck, Brittany's eyes finally fall close, thoughts ceasing as she melts into the kiss. She'll worry over her questions later. For now she couldn't be more thrilled by Santana's sudden boldness. Her arms find their way behind the doctor's back, resting over Santana's hips. Brittany pulls her closer, a rush of heat rolling through her veins as she feels Santana's tongue slip beside her own. A whimper escapes one, the other swallowing the sound whole, kiss growing even more frantic.
Santana moves forward, up onto her toes, arms wrapping tightly behind Brittany's neck. She is trying so desperately to convey into this moment all the feelings that coursed through her as she read Hendrick's letter. All the love she feels for Brittany; all her hopes for the promises the courier has made. Brittany's back meets the equipment wall, the clang of horseshoes and tools ringing loudly in the silent tent.
Santana breaks away, once more thrown into the reality of her rash action. She's breathless, eyes wide and dark as she stares up at Brittany. An apology is already formed upon her tongue but before she can even utter a word Brittany's eyes flutter open, a beautifully crooked smile quirking at the corner of her mouth.
"Firstly," Brittany whispers, equally breathless. Her mind is still very much a haze of all things Santana as she says softly, "A very good morn to you as well, Santana." She smiles at Santana lazily as she gives her another peck before asking, "though, I am a might confused as to why."
"This," Santana tells her, voice low, husky still from their kiss of moments before. She feels her cheeks warm at the sound, Brittany's eyes growing ever darker upon hearing the lowered tone of her voice. Santana holds up the now crinkled letter between them. Brittany need not even see a word upon the page. She recognizes the paper instantly.
"It's from Pa. Can I?" Brittany asks, eyes locked upon Santana's as she hesitantly reaches for the letter. Santana smiles, nodding as she allows Brittany to slip it from her hand. She waits as Brittany reads, blue eyes slowly moving across the page, sometimes backtracking, her smile widening as she absorbs the kind words of her father. When she finishes her gaze has become watery as she looks back up at Santana.
"I told you he'd love you as well, San," Brittany says, bridging the space between them to envelope Santana in a warm hug. It is an embrace Santana is more than willing to share in, hooking her chin over the taller woman's shoulder and holding her tight. "You don't have to be afraid to come home with me."
To which Santana answers, heart full and calmed, "I'm not."
It's the truth. Especially in this moment, where it is simply her and Brittany and the world beyond the tent does not exist. For once their moment ends she must return to her duties and what she fears most is what lies outside the tent, down the path inside the field hospital.
Where she is sure Michael is working diligently, his thoughts still very much wrapped around the comments Noah uttered, and his ideas about her and Brittany's relationship spinning wild.
She finds him easily enough, just as he promised, arranging for her operating station to be well and set upon her arrival.
"Hello," she greets him softly, upset when he gives her a nod but is unable to meet her eyes. She moves closer to him, mindful of the way one of the nurses watches them curiously. She turns to the woman, her air of a surgeon very much in place as she tells the nurse, "Could you please fetch a few tourniquets from the supply crates for me? Good leather, if you will."
The nurse gives a nod, heading off to complete her errand. One Santana knows will buy her a few minutes at most.
"And could I perhaps fit in a few words with you, Michael?" she asks as the man continues deftly avoiding her gaze, rearranging the tools upon her tray for the third time. She reaches for him. "Michael, please if—"
"We're to perform a hand amputation," he says, moving aside, busying himself with the sheet upon the table. "We need to be prepared."
Santana pulls him away, ignoring the stricken look upon his face as she forces him to listen. "What you heard was a farce, nothing more."
"It seemed not to you when Noah first mentioned it," he tells her, tone incensed.
"I was astounded is all!" she exclaims in a hushed voice, heart racing. "You mustn't fault me for that. Please don't think more on this matter," she pleads, her grip upon his arms tightening.
"I… I don't know what to think," he confesses, the anger in his tone gone, now replaced with a tired confusion. He looks up at her. Santana is upset to find his eyes so clouded with distaste and yet also muddled with worry. "Noah isn't the sharpest but the fact he believes it so strongly must mean—"
"Nothing," Santana interjects. "There is nothing between Britt and I aside from kinship. You must understand that," she says leaning closer as she whispers, "I just wish to look out for her. Her father worries so and thus I care for her in his stead. Noah sees what he will of that, it's understandable why he'd think otherwise."
Michael sighs finally, eyes softening, "Given the circumstances I can see Noah being misled."
Santana masks the relief coursing so strongly though her it nearly makes her faint by leaning against the table, a shaky smirk forming to her lips as she tells him, "Noah also believes he's God's given gift to women."
Michael chuckles, the sound easing away any further of Santana's fears. "I don't doubt that," he says before growing serious and laying a gentle hand to Santana's forearm. She stills in her preparations, quirking a brow as she looks up at him. "I apologize for thinking so ill of you and my actions that followed."
"Consider it forgotten," Santana tells him with a grin. She is happy for this matter to have finally been settled, and what more, for everything to have remained the same between them.
"Just imagining two women, like that, it's…" he begins to say, brow furrowing as he thinks of an answer. Santana doesn't realize her fingers are digging into the sheet upon the table until she feels her nails scrape along the surface. "It's strange...depraved, almost. Don't you agree?"
All Santana can do is nod, her breath stilling as he gives her a smile and leaves to fetch their patient. Even as the nurse and Michael return and the man is placed upon the table, Santana must do everything in her power to keep her hands from shaking so.
She fears that if this is what someone she considers a close friend feels, then what of the rest of the world? What if instead of harsh words it's actions instead? Brittany doesn't see the intolerant nature in others; aside from Cooper that is, but his actions speak far louder than any of his callous words. And those are the actions of a coward, a weak human simply driven by jealously. What of those driven by hate? Those capable of truly rendering pain, openly?
Those of faith, who belittle women…people like her father.
No, Santana thinks as she delves into the operation. She won't let him harm Brittany, not anyone. She'd throw herself in front of their fires before they could even think to lay a finger upon Brittany.
But what of their friends? If Burt were to know, Noah, Hendrick?
She stills the saw in her hand, blood chilling in her veins. What of those that care for Brittany?
She finishes the operation far later than expected, Michael voicing a constant stream of concern her way the entirety of the procedure. She assures him all is well, excusing both him and the nurse as she washes her hands in the basin and splashes her face a few times with some fresh water.
"Santana," her father calls for her and she is torn from her thoughts, her stomach a dire mess of anxieties. Sweat prickles at her brow as he approaches her with a reproachful stare. "Why do you appear so ill?"
"Dysentery patient," she supplies quickly. "He could not contain his bowels, the smell was atrocious."
"Nevertheless," he says, brushing the explanation aside. "You are to dine with myself, the Colonel and a few others in town this evening," he explains, ignoring the stunned look upon her face as he continues. "I've had a nurse fetch a dress for you from town. Ensure you look presentable. I'll not have you embarrass me tonight. Be ready by the outpost come dusk."
As her father said, a dress is waiting for her upon her arrival to the cabin later that afternoon. Santana finds it lying upon her cot, the fabric heavy as she holds it up. It's vaguely reminiscent of her gowns back home in Cincinnati, and by vaguely she means not at all. In place of her preference for silk the gown is sewn of a cheaper material, a coarse cotton blend. Despite this, the sleeves are distinctly lace. Probably the finest thing in town, she thinks as she holds it up to her chest. The color she more than approves of: a deep red, almost burgundy stain has been set into the fabric.
It's still an eyesore of a garment, far too big in the hem, clearly of southern style and not the simple trim and flow of the dresses she's used to in fashion up north. Nevertheless her father has requested she don it and as she currently stands with him she'd rather not add more fire to his fury.
After squeezing herself into the dress, a feat even she was surprised to have managed given the smaller bust size of the gown, she slips on her boots once more. The dress hides the scuffs of her worn shoes and Santana thinks it could perhaps also hide a few children.
She hopes the walk to the outpost will prove quick. She'd rather no one see her looking so ridiculously dapper.
But of course her wishes go unanswered for just as she exits the cabin Noah and Brittany so happen to walk by on their way to supper. They each stop in their steps, Noah's jaw falling open as he stares toward her in wonder. Brittany though remains composed, a small smile on her lips and cheeks burning red.
"You look a fine sight tonight, Santana!" Noah hollers as she makes her way to them. Brittany's eyes immediately go to the ground. "Real pretty," he says once she's standing before them. "What's the occasion?"
"Dinner with the Colonel," Santana replies, giving a groan as she admits, "But I'd much rather stay here with you both."
"Ah, no, you can't turn down the duck roast I'm sure you'll be having tonight," Noah says and then leans closer, smiling widely as he requests, "Sneak some back for us? No, better yet, sneak back a few bottles of bourbon will you? I'm sure you could fit a whole cupboard full under that dress."
"Stealing from the Colonel, yes, I'm sure that would go over well if I were caught," she replies with a roll of her eyes.
"If," Noah winks. "But we know you won't be."
"I'm not pilfering liquor for you."
"Very well," Noah says with a chuckle. His grin turns warm, almost shy as he asks, "Maybe we'll see you at our fire later?"
Santana smiles, knowing now that all is forgiven between them. "I'd like that," she says softly.
He gives her another wink and nudges Brittany's arm. "How's about we go see what Beiste is cooking up tonight?"
Brittany nods, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she dares a glance up toward Santana. Santana holds her gaze but for a moment, the same flutter of sensations settling in her stomach as she does. Brittany is looking at her with such hesitance, with such adoration. Santana looks away quickly; Brittany feels her heart tug in her chest at the action.
"Go eat," Santana says with a forced laugh, shooing them by shoving against Noah's shoulder playfully.
"I'm not kidding about that bourbon!" Noah shouts from over his shoulder as he and Brittany make their way down the lane.
Santana shakes her head at him before making her own way toward the camp outpost.
She is surprised when she arrives to find an open air carriage waiting for her. Her father is, naturally, displeased by her tardiness. He sits along one bench and, much to Santana's lament, Scott Cooper sits opposite.
"We're to dine at an estate tonight," Dr. Lopez informs her as she climbs up and he motions for her to sit beside Cooper. The soldier deftly keeps his gaze to floor as she narrows her own into the side of his face. Dr. Lopez rolls his eyes at the display. "I've invited Private Cooper as our guest."
"Excuse me?" Santana says with a shake of her head. "But since when do you consider pests, guests?"
"Quiet your tongue, Santana," her father growls. "As if I would have allowed Pierce to accompany you tonight."
"Bret is far more a man than the coward quivering beside me," Santana replies. "Look at him; he cannot even meet my gaze."
Cooper remains mute, squaring his shoulders somewhat even as his eyes remain rooted to the floor.
"Stop torturing the boy so," Dr. Lopez relents. "Perhaps someone better will catch your eye tonight. Your mother insisted you accompany me to one of these dinners."
"And what will she know if I don't attend?" Santana questions.
"I'd rather not have to answer any of her ridiculous questions on the matter," Dr. Lopez tells her, bored as the carriage driver finally sets the horses forward in a brisk trot. "You can both discuss this upon our return to home. Whenever God grants us that reprieve."
Santana knows better than to tell him she hasn't considered it her home in months now.
The estate they eat in is beautiful, the owners very much in favor of the North and more than happy to be hosting a supper in their honor. Colonel Wright is drunk by the time they arrive, having downed a great deal of whiskey with the home's proprietor, a good friend of his from their years in the Mexican war. They sit at the head of the table, laughing boisterously and filling their stomachs with pheasant.
Cooper sits beside her at the table, cowering whenever she so much as glances his way.
Santana hasn't touched her supper; unable to eat beneath the scrutiny of her father and the lewd stares some of the men see fit to linger upon her. She wishes the nurse would have chosen a far more conservative dress, if only so as to alleviate her from their unwanted attentions. She tugs up on the sleeves, the dress barely brushing against her shoulder upon its release.
Her father leans close. "Stop fussing," he hisses from between his teeth.
She says nothing in return, spearing a few green beans with her fork and forcing them down her throat.
"And what are you thinking, Wright?" asks a man stationed across the table. Santana has forgotten his name, but recognizes his bawdy stare. The taste of beans upon her tongue grows stale. "How long will you be stationed with us here in Hartsville?"
Colonel Wright gives pause in his laughter, face red from the liquor as he mulls the question in his head. Santana watches, astounded as he seems to remove himself from his inebriated haze, eyes focusing as he says, "Through winter, at the least. I've heard inklings we may be headin' further south yet."
Santana feels the green beans wishing to rise back up her throat at the statement. Even as her father fills his plate twice over she remains, quieted and still in her seat. A glance to her side proves Cooper is in much the same mindset, his food too untouched upon his plate.
"Do eat, will you," her father tells her, plopping a roll atop her potatoes.
"I'm afraid my appetite has deserted me," Santana says then turns to him and mutters, "Perhaps because of the unfortunate company you've sat me beside."
Dr. Lopez realizes she is right; Cooper has been nothing but a simpering coward all evening. He barely answers any questions and his eyes are constantly darting toward Santana in what can only appear to be some type of anxiety.
"Well, if we move further south I've no doubt our good medical staff will ensure the men stay well and fit," Captain Hartman supplies, raising his glass of wine in toast. "Dr. Lopez, you've been exemplary. If only other surgeons were as thorough in their care as you. Wasn't it just this past week you rid poor Ewing of a ruptured spleen?"
Santana balks, fork clattering to her plate. Her father pays her no heed, a smile upon his lips as he nods, graciously accepting credit for a procedure she undertook. She cannot believe the audacity of her father to have taken credit for work she's done. What else could he have been claiming as his own? It's obvious to her now why he was ever granted the title of Major. The undeserving, insolent- her thoughts grind to a halt as he gives a forced chuckle in good humor.
"It was quite a mess he made of himself," Dr. Lopez muses as he scratches at his wrist. Santana fumes silently beside him as he continues to boast of accomplishments he knows full well were of her own doing. Her nails dig into the napkin draped in her lap, jaw clenched tight as he speaks with contrived praise of the fine staff he's been afforded and even going so far as to bestow her with a small bit of approval as his assistant. He turns his insufferable smile toward her, laying a hand gently along the top of her bare shoulders as he says for all the table to hear, "It is merely our duty to get these boys well so they may see home again, isn't that right Santana?"
But Santana is rendered mute in the wake of her all-consuming resentment, unable to even open her mouth let alone utter one syllable. She wishes to slap his hand away, the feel of his skin upon her own is maddening. She can feel her father squeezing the muscles in her shoulder, a silent command to answer him. If she were to look up she'd find an equal expression now reflected in his dark eyes, impatient and irked.
"Santana performed the surgery upon Ewing," Cooper says after a moment. A few gasps issue forth from those present at the table, others turning stunned gazes toward Dr. Lopez. Santana's head turns sharply toward Cooper, his eyes rooted upon her hand still clenched around her napkin. His eyes flick up, locking upon her own, an expression held within them she cannot place as he says aloud, "She also ordered the expansion of the tent at Mackville. The cleanliness. Everything. She's the one you should be praising."
Silence envelopes the room.
Santana cannot sit still any longer. She pushes out from the table, offering a quick, "Excuse me," as she hastens toward the hall door.
She doesn't stop until the cold of the night air meets her lungs and her hands grip upon the railing of the veranda porch. Taking heaving breaths deep into her lungs she closes her eyes, desperate to make sense of what just unfolded inside.
"Santana?" Cooper ventures, jogging up to her. She whirls on him, her glare furiously burning into him even as he holds his hands in surrender and tells her quickly, "I just wish to apologize!"
Santana stares at him, incredulous. After a moment she lets out a groan. "Why did you?" she asks.
"Truthfully?" Cooper replies, and upon her nod he runs a hand through his hair, giving her a shaky smile before saying, "I, selfishly, thought if I set him right you would perhaps forgive any future lapses in my poor judgment and spare the hearing in my only working ear."
"There was a contingent to that threat," she supplies. "And assuring me now you plan on having further lapses in judgment does nothing to retract my promises from before."
"Then does telling you I spoke up tonight because of him help?" he asks her, quieted, his eyes focused upon the railing as he picks at some of the paint. With a deep exhale he looks up at her. "I'm not Bret, nor do I realize will I ever be. And as much as it pains me to admit because he's so... so god damned strange, he's still a better courier, a better friend, a better person than I. And don't look at me so, this is the truth and for once I am inclined to speak it. All I know is that if he were here tonight he would have said the same at that table." And with a sly, though not quite so mocking, smirk adds, "Perhaps not as eloquently, mind you."
"I may not wish to bring you harm," Santana tells him evenly. "But I still detest what you did to him."
"I don't expect your forgiveness," Cooper says softy. "Nor Bret's. I won't bother you both none anymore, Miss Santana. You've enough a bother in a father."
"For once, something we both agree on," she says with a wry grin. "You should go though."
"Would you like me to walk you back?" He asks, eyes darting down to the encampment below the hill before focusing back upon Santana's once more. "Consider it my amends for being such an ass."
"You're still an ass," Santana corrects him with a roll of her eyes. "That's not soon to change."
"Such little faith in me I see. Have as pleasant an evening as you can then," he tells her with a chuckle. As he hops down the steps and makes his way out the yard he turns, giving her a wave as he hollers. "Or at the very least give him greater hell!"
Her father finds her not long after Cooper disappears over the ridge. All inklings of his earlier fury are tempered in favor of cool eyes and thick band of smoke issuing from the cigar held between his lips. "Pity about Cooper," he says, as he comes to stand beside Santana. "I'm afraid his injury is more dire than I first imagined."
Santana's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
"You heard him, sprouting those lies," he says, shaking his head. He puckers his mouth, staring down at Santana before turning his back to the field and blowing a lungful of smoke up into the black sky. "I assured the Colonel some time spent in a facility better equipped to cure his mania would do him well."
"You've—" Santana sputters, eyes wide. "You've ordered him to be committed?"
Dr. Lopez smiles. "Incredible, what sway my rank affords me."
She can hear the unspoken implication upon his tone, knowing full well what he wishes her to say next. She feels not the bitter chill in the air, instead the heat now radiating throughout her as she mutters, "What do you want?"
"You're a competent physician, Santana," her father tells her, his tone honest, stilling. She feels her throat clench, heart pounding hard as he continues, "There is no doubt of that. I'd hoped you would have failed when I appointed you a table in Mackville. Perhaps I'd find you spending a great deal of your time crying over the stress and then you would have begged of me to send you home," he tells her. He turns toward her, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "You're not at all that woman though, are you? Nothing like your mother."
"She was never as you've made her now."
"Weak character does not an excuse make! You've stubbornly held yours despite my attempts in the contrary."
"I am not a puppet for yours, or anyone's hands to manipulate!" Santana shouts at him. "Why is it so difficult for you to accept…" she chokes upon her words, casting her eyes down before turning back upon his indifferent gaze and telling him thickly, "to accept me?"
Dr. Lopez is struck by the sheer emotion laced within the impassioned words of his daughter. In her eyes he can see her mounting hatred for him, it burns in a gaze that so mirrors his own there are times when he feels he's staring at a softer version of himself. A young Albert, standing in defiance to his own ruthless father in much the same manner his daughter is in this moment. And just as before he can see the desire for his acceptance in those dark eyes. For the respect he's never once deemed to grant her let alone voiced his opinion in favor for.
He hadn't been lying when he'd told her she is a competent physician. She very much is, and perhaps one day, soon he laments, she'll be better versed and more accomplished than even he. And at such an age! It's preposterous! He cannot wrap his mind around how quickly she's taken to everything he's thrown at her. At the patients who flourish in her care. It is her badge he wears upon his lapels. And he cannot accept that he's contributed to making her the woman she is today. Someone even the coldest of father's could find pride in, adore, and dare he think, esteem. But he will not show her the respect she deserves. Because, "I cannot accept disappointment."
"Is that what I am?" she asks, swallowing hard, eyes now brimming with unshed tears.
Dr. Lopez turns from her, gaze focused upon the polished veranda railing as he mutters, "I hear of the way you speak of me with that Chinaman—"
"His name is Michael," she growls. "He's as much an American as I. More than I can say for you."
"And see, here you are, yet again, speaking against me," he says with a roll of his eyes.
"What is it you want of me?" she shouts at him.
"Calm that Lopez temper of yours, Santana," he clicks his tongue at her. "I only desire the respect you've not seen fit to give me."
She crosses her arms over her chest. "Done."
Dr. Lopez chuckles. "I don't quite believe you. Let me elaborate," he says, taking a step closer, his once calm demeanor shifting in place of towering intimidation. "You will acquiesce to any orders I see fit to delve. Hold your tongue on all matters and continue your good work under the guise of my instruction," he all but demands, eyes boring squarely into her own. A smirk curls at his lip as he tells her next, "Do this and I won't have that fool Pierce committed as well."
Santana pushes him back with a shove. "You cannot send him away! You've no proof he's done anything!"
"No, you're right. I haven't," he tells her thoughtfully, inhaling deeply from his cigar. He leans toward her once more, the smoke rolling from his tongue as he says, "But I just as easily could have him reassigned. Have you any idea how desperate the infantries in the Carolina's are for new men?"
He can't, she screams at herself, willing for his words to not dig so deeply into her heart as they've just done. But struck her they have, leaving her gaping at her father while horror pierces into her gut, nausea onsetting soon after. Brittany can't be sent away. Not to a hospital, not to an institution... not to where the war rages hottest and the fires of the destruction can bee seen for miles. Where men are sent to die upon fields of grass... where home is never a future. Santana feels as though she's drowning, unable to resurface for air let alone call for help. It is just her and her father outside. Them and nothing save for the light of the moon and the stars shining brightly in the sky. And despite all this twisting so painfully within her she can't help but think how this perfect night paints the backdrop to the stealing of her freedom.
"This is extortion," Santana hisses, a telltale waver hitching in her voice.
A waver Dr. Lopez more than picks up upon, grinning as he tells her, "I care not for your perverse infatuation with that insipid boy so call this what you will." He's pleased to note the moisture collecting in her eyes has thickened. To leave her shaken, have her full respect, no matter how it is conceived is all he desires. She's tread upon him for far too long, questioned him for the last and final time. And even as he asks his next question he anticipates she will not fail him in her reply. "Have we an agreement?"
Santana's known the answer since the moment he stepped to the porch and as she utters her pained, "Yes," her father's smile grows.
Dr. Lopez turns from her then, inspecting the tip of his cigar before flicking it out to the yard below. The embers burn for a few seconds longer as he whispers down to his daughter, "This is for your own good. Even your mother agrees."
To which Santana also only has one answer, one she doesn't hesitate over as she tells him evenly, "As of this day I have no mother." And harder yet continues, "Or father."
"Then be free of my name and cease with your unnecessary melodrama," Dr. Lopez groans with a wave of his hand. "Dear God, you're worse than the hookers when it comes to theatrics. At least they provide some measure of amusement."
The tears fall down her face unchecked. "You truly do not care…"
"For you?" he asks, looking down upon her. He takes in the wrinkled state of her new dress, the stains along her cheeks. Any inkling of devotion toward the woman who stands so broken before him never surfaces. He feels it never did. Adjusting his coat over his shoulders, without thinking to lend it down to his chilled daughter he says, "To be frank, the moment you acquired my name was also the very moment I wished you rid of it. My sentiments on the matter haven't swayed. At least now—Where are you going?" he asks as she begins to walk away from him.
Santana doesn't stop in her path toward the steps. "I cannot stay here. Not with you."
He rushes forward before even one of her feet can touch upon the steps. "You will continue to share my cabin," he commands, spinning her around forcefully. "I'm not to have you off fucking that Pierce idiot all night. You will not sully my name despite forfeiting your right to it."
She rips her arm free, spitting out harshly, "As if you're not off to do the very same tonight."
"I've an appointment," he growls.
"With a whore."
Santana lets out a pained gasp as his palm strikes solidly against her cheek. The slap echoes down the yard, Santana's skin burning hot in the frigid night air. "Consider that your last and only warning," he tells her. "My time concerns you not. Is that clear?"
He releases her, Santana stumbling back a few steps before she's able to catch herself. Without so much as looking to him she mutters out a simple, "Yes."
"Go now," he waves her off. "See to it you get a good night's rest. There is a lot to be done come morning."
Santana bites her tongue hard to keep from lashing out at him as she wishes, instead turning toward the stairs and taking two at a time as she hurries from his presence. She can feel his eyes watching her as she moves through the yard and down the hillside. She wants to scream, wants so much to bring him pain.
Even once inside their cabin, ripping the dress from her body, she can still feel his hand along her cheek. The tears born of his disregard are still diligent in their path down her face. She sucks a ragged breath deep into her lungs as she kicks the dress to the corner of the room, hoping the sparks from the stove set it ablaze. She hopes the whole of the cabin goes with it, all her father's materials burning to ash. It would be so easy, she thinks, to start a fire whilst he sleeps. To watch him burn, surrounded by all his lies and insecurities.
As she exhales the rage coursing so dangerously within her ebbs, her body exceedingly fatigued in its wake. She allows herself to fall to her cot, wincing as a few books below her bed poke up into her stomach. Santana stuffs her hands beneath her pillow, so ready to clench the object to her face and let out the scream she's desired to all evening. But her hand brushes against something, the crinkle of paper meeting her ears. She picks herself up upon her elbows, turning her pillow over to find a small note beneath.
Dear San,
I wanted to say this to you earlier, but I knew I couldn't. It was really hard to breathe when I saw you and even though that dress was ugly, you looked so beautiful. I'm so proud of you. Wherever it is you were tonight I hope everyone got to see just how smart, and good, and wonderful you are. I hope I made the commas right. You're the best teacher, so much better than my old one. I think I saw him yesterday but he had no hair so it couldn't be him. And you're far better looking too but you know that already. I love you. Please don't ever forget that.
Yours,
B
Santana finds her tears falling harder as she rereads the short letter. And she knows, in the deepest of her soul that she will surrender to her father's commands. Anything to ensure Brittany not be sent away.
To ensure she keep the woman she loves safe, here, until they can return home, together.