Chapter 16
Before the Dawn
The hour is early when Santana wakes, bleary-eyed with her belly a knotted mess of aches. She's on her back, staring up at the weathered canvas tent top as she squirms into a more comfortable position, hoping to alleviate some of the muscle pains along her abdomen. Yet even with the discomfort she knows it can't be too long till morn is upon them. The tent is still shrouded in darkness; chirps of the night critters hushed with the impending light of dawn. It makes for a blank opus in the air her empty stomach is more than pleased to fill, grumbling loud in the quiet of the tent as her hunger pangs finally become too strong to ignore. Santana twists against the cramp blooming in her gut and prays Brittany hasn't heard, or worse inquires into the reason for such disturbing noise. Having to explain how she's barely been able to keep her food down since Brittany left will only cause the woman needless grief.
And it matters not anymore, Santana thinks, not now that Brittany is here beside her and come dawn they will be sharing breakfast, together, undisturbed, their pretenses of the past forgotten. Santana's looking forward to that bowl of bland cornmeal, far more than she feels she's looked forward to anything in a long while, short of Brittany's safe return. It's silly, she knows, feeling so eager at the prospect of sharing such a simple act. But it will be the first time she can enjoy a meal with Brittany as a free woman without fear of retribution from him… from anyone.
The sun can't rise soon enough.
Her stomach rumbles, another loud groan echoing into the silence of the night. Santana curses beneath her breath and brings a hand down over her belly, hoping to quell any more protests with firm pressure. She hopes her traitorous stomach hasn't bothered Brittany. If anything she's the one in need of a full night's rest. Even as Brittany drifted to sleep Santana could see the beginnings of exhaustion swelling in the tender skin beneath her eyes. It worried her then and still does even now.
How much had Brittany slept while she was away, if at all?
Could she not manage to close her eyes long enough? Forgotten how important sleep was?
…Was she truly that worried?
Santana need not answer the questions, knowing full well what the bags beneath Brittany's eyes entail. They're not facing one another but she can feel Brittany's body heat against her left side. The full length of her side, she realizes as a warmth settles in her cheeks and cramps in her stomach depart in favor of a familiar slow burn. They are each still nude beneath the cover of the coats and blankets, their clothes scattered amidst the tent. That is aside from the socks Brittany dons. Santana can feel one pressed against her left foot. She smiles recalling how Brittany hadn't even thought to remove them yet was vehemently adamant to shed her shirt around the third or fourth, though fairly less enthused, recitation of the sonnet.
"It's not fair to you," Brittany had said as she popped open the last remaining buttons and slipped the uniform down off her shoulders. "You can't be naked alone. There's the law to uphold an' all."
Santana hadn't the heart to question such obviously flawed reasoning.
If Brittany wished to shed her shirt, she wasn't about to stop her in the least.
That would have been the most flawed reasoning of all.
Once the shirt was discarded Brittany settled back beside her, the beginnings of sleep weighing down upon her eyelids. Her smile never waned though, even as her eyes began to slowly close. She muttered drowsy wishes for a good day to come, for home… for Emily. Santana simply held her, too afraid to move lest Brittany wake. She didn't allow herself to follow into dreams until she could feel the slowed rate of Brittany's heart.
She doesn't want to wake her now, but there's a strange ache in her chest, a heaviness of sorts she feels will only fade upon sight of her bedmate.
So it is with much relief that as Santana turns toward her left side Brittany remains sleeping. Peacefully so, at that. She's sprawled on her stomach, one hand tucked beneath her head and the other loosely folded against Santana's upper arm. She can feel Brittany's soft breaths, warm in their touch as they tickle against her bare shoulder. And even with half of Brittany's face obscured, squashed more apt the term, against the scarf and her hair a mussed mess atop her head Santana thinks she's never quite seen anything so perfect.
She rolls her eyes at the foolish sentimentality of that thought. But she'll be damned if she recants it. Brittany is perfect. It is the truest thing she knows.
The pressure in her chest hasn't faded; it has amplified somehow with the need to touch her.
Careful so as to not wake her –though she doubts Brittany will be woken so easily after another gregarious cramp sounds from her stomach– Santana reaches forward, tucking some of Brittany's hair back behind her ear from where it rests across her face. Brittany's nose scrunches as she does so, her hold upon Santana's arm tightening as she burrows deeper into the bedroll. She relaxes not a second later, a contended sigh of an exhale the only sign she remains dreaming.
Santana grins, victorious in her gamble.
That is until Brittany cracks her only visible eye open, the other obscured in the scarf yet. She blinks a few times, vision adjusting to the darkness and the blurred silhouette of Santana lying close beside her. A small, sleepy smile begins to form at the corner of her mouth once her vision focuses. She's never seen Santana look so at peace, the rare sight of her dimples now on full display.
"I'd apologize for waking you," Santana says quietly, a telling hint of playfulness upon her tone. "But I'm not really all that sorry at the moment."
She is sorry, however, when her stomach moans yet again and Brittany's expression veers toward fretful.
"You're hungry," Brittany notes, eyes softening as she moves to sit up. "San, when was the last time—"
Santana quiets her worries with a kiss, just a press of her lips against Brittany's. It's chaste in touch, but lingers as Santana moves closer, pushing gently against Brittany's shoulder until she reclines back into the bedroll once more. Santana pulls away, hovering just above Brittany as she smiles down at her. "Don't worry, we'll be having breakfast soon."
Brittany's eyes brighten considerably, a hesitant smile now upon her lips. "Together?"
Santana dips down, brushing a kiss below Brittany's ear. "Mmhmm," she hums, planting another low on her jaw.
"I'd really like that," Brittany tells her softly, eyes falling closed as Santana continues in a delicate path down her neck. "And I like what you're doing now too."
Santana chuckles against Brittany's rapidly warming skin. "Me too, Britt."
Her fingers just begin to graze across Brittany's stomach when there's a quick rap against the top of the tent's support post followed by a terse order of, "Ready."
Brittany's nose crinkles as she tries to reason the command, let alone the odd hour of the instruction. There is only ever one reason to be called up at such a time of night, one she tries so hard never to think about. Combat is the one intricacy of war she never wishes to experience again. But the command that has been thrust upon her ensures that a battle is eminent.
Yet this call to arms is different. Calm. Too simple in it's instruction. Quiet. If there is one thing Captain Hartman is not, it is a reserved man. His command to arms is always shouted at the very top of his large, thunderous lungs. She doesn't hear him ordering soldiers about… She doesn't hear a thing aside from the quick patter of feet beyond the tent and the stilling silence in the night air surrounding them. There are no chirps of the riverbed cicadas, no calls of the barn owls living in the woods nearby. The quiet is most unsettling of all.
Brittany remains still even as Santana sits up in the bed, hearing the same knock being placed against the neighboring tent. The rustle of bedrolls quickly follows it as the men awaken, their tired voices concerned as they address their tent mates. She hugs the blankets close to her chest, heart rate quickening. This cannot be happening again, she thinks. Not so soon. Her hand searches for Brittany's along the bedroll, eyes soon turning down upon the woman.
Brittany is already staring up at her, breath held, bewildered and alert.
A shot is fired into the night and both jolt at the sudden blast.
Then a curse is muttered from a man standing just beyond the brink of their tent. The word is unrecognizable, dialect odd. Santana sucks in a sharp lung full of air, her skin prickling with gooseflesh. Her eyes never leave Brittany's, not even as the blue of Brittany's eyes pale, her pupils shrinking tight with anxiety.
The voice is layered thick with the drawl of the South.
A cry is issued into the night, hollered loud by one of the neighboring soldiers, "REBS!"
Brittany's eyes widen at the call, throat swelled shut by the implication of the warning. Santana's nails dig deep into the calloused skin of Brittany's palm, her heart now hammering a rapid pattern against her ribs. Another shot is quickly fired, the neighbor's scream tearing after into the air. Blood splatters against the tent top, a dull thud of sound meeting their ears when his body smacks against the ground outside Brittany's tent.
Shouts are heralded into the night. Southern and Northern alike.
Then anarchy engulfs the lane.
The sound of gunfire explodes all around them, bullets easily tearing through the top of Brittany's tent. She grabs Santana round the waist and pulls her roughly back down to the bedroll. There's no time to think, not when her clothes are being shoved into her hands and Santana's mouth is moving but no words seem to be meeting Brittany's ears. Brittany's unsure the sounds of battle are muffling Santana's words or if Santana's voice has become just as lost as her own. The only sounds able to work past Brittany's tongue are a series of garbled sputters, unintelligent and helpless. Santana seems to understand, even with her eyes consumed with panic. She helps Brittany slip into her shirt, doing the buttons up haphazardly, off by at least four positions. Santana can't stop her hands from shaking as she grabs for her own dress next.
Carelessly clothed they stumble out from the tent, hands clutched tightly; bodies crouched low to the ground, the laces of their boots trailing undone behind them.
Men clad in Northern uniform are firing upon each other, the grey of Southern soldiers indiscernible in the bleak night. Nonexistent in reality. It is only once Brittany is torn from Santana's side by the folly of a young soldier tripping above them that Santana realizes the veracity of that thought. There is no difference in the men fighting; no discernible way to pinpoint the enemy from a friend. They wear the jackets of the Union with purpose, firing upon any man clambering from out a tent or donning a heavy blue coat.
A deceitful ambush.
Nearly perfect in execution.
Another soldier springs over top them, rifle brandished high as he dives into the fray. Whilst he plows headlong into combat others scramble to escape the deadly fights breaking out along the lane and spilling deeper into the camp. Santana takes hold of Brittany's hand and pulls them up to their feet. They cannot stay here; they need to run.
Her feet forge a path straight for the field hospital, eyes focused ahead and not upon the massacre surrounding them. Brittany keeps pace, pushing aside men in their way, desperate to reach a safe haven.
"Santana! Britt!" Noah is shouting for them, shoving aside soldiers amassing in the lanes as he hurries toward them. Santana is relieved to see him, heart skipping several beats as he clears the last of the men. Her stomach drops upon sight of the spare musket he tosses to Brittany's chest. "You'll need that."
Brittany fumbles with the gun, unwilling to let go of Santana's hand. "I can't shoot anyone!" she cries out, stomach knotting with dread. She forces the rifle back toward Noah but he gives a shake of his head, eyes softening and he pushes it back into her arms.
"Not to fire," he explains, expression grave. "So that one of our own doesn't confuse you for one of them! Though use it if you need."
"I won't," is Brittany's adamant reply. She's never once had to fire a weapon and the mere thought of ending a life stabs something agonizingly fierce into her chest.
Her attention is averted by a familiar voice, one she and Noah have been trained to adhere. They can hear Captain Hartman, just off in the distance, hollering orders to his company from atop his riled horse. It's impossible to decipher his words over the rounds of gunfire and shouts of dying men.
Noah grabs both women, pulling them close. "Get up to the hill! Anyplace safe!" He tells them loudly, voice wavering. There's tears in his eyes when he steps away, a stark contrast to the confidence he wears upon his lips. "I'll find you! Promise!"
Brittany can barely manage to nod; the gun in her arms is suddenly the heaviest burden she feels she's ever carried. She bites her lip to keep it from quivering so, her own eyes clouded with tears as Noah takes off in a sprint to join the battle.
He's gone from sight before she can even manage a word for his own safety.
Brittany cannot move, gripped in a dizzying spell of absolute terror. She feels as though her feet have been buried deep into the soil, heart pounding so loud she can hear the blood rushing in her ears.
"Come on, Brittany!" Santana tugs upon her arm, leading her back in the direction of the field hospital. Brittany stumbles behind her, eyes riveted to the last place in the fray where Noah was visible. She prays for his safety, willing with all her might that he makes it from this night alive. Santana halts not a second later, gripping hard to Brittany's hand. The clatter of horse hooves rumbles along the ground, Santana is momentarily shaken imagining a Southern cavalry now upon them. She whirls on her feet, barely managing to pull Brittany aside in time before the Union horses dash by, riderless and frightened. Piedmont among the herd.
Brittany's heart sinks. She moves to give chase but Santana pulls her back, shaking her head quickly in lieu of words. The look upon Brittany's face is heartrending; her own chest constricts knowing they need to move. Cavalry soldiers sprint by, torches wielded high in their hands. They knock against the women's sides as they pass, desperate to catch their steeds, unfocused upon the bands of men firing upon one another around them.
One is shot, his torch flung from his hands onto a nearby tent as he crashes down to the ground. The flames are quick to erupt up the canvas, spreading fast to the next tent in line. The blaze is hot against Santana's skin, her already heated blood all the more frantic in its course through her veins. She breathes hard, eyes darting across the lane for an escape.
A deafening blast sounds from the nearby line of trees. Cannon fire. The cold of the night air feels blistering against her heated skin awaiting its impact.
Brittany sees it first, just a blur of motion across the dark sky. She yanks Santana into her body. The cannon round screams overhead before barreling through the inferno of tents and slamming hard into the ground just a few feet from Captain Hartman and his horse. There's an explosion of dirt sent into the air, a dozen men nearby thrown from their feet if not torn asunder by the impact. Brittany turns from the carnage, burying her face against Santana's hair, unwilling to see the fate of her Captain and his loyal companion. Her stomach convulses, bile rising in her throat. Santana throws an arm over Brittany's shoulders, pulling her upright before she can lose her stomach to the ground. Brittany can feel a solid, grounding kiss being pressed against her jaw. She turns to Santana, just wishing for this all to end, for them to crawl back into their bedroll and wake from this nightmare.
But Santana's gaze speaks of their reality; of her fear for their safety. She squeezes tight to Brittany, ensuring the cap atop her head is snug. They need to make it to the field hospital. They cannot leave without Michael.
"Don't let go!" Santana is shouting at her to be heard over the chaos. Brittany nods, holding Santana's hand and the rifle close. They hurry across the smoldering remains of the still-burning tents, ignoring the bloodied bodies of men littering the ground. Brittany whispers a prayer for Burt as they run. She hopes the Southern force hasn't made it into the center of camp yet; his tent should still be untouched. She cannot leave him behind.
"Burt!" she shouts to Santana, hoping just the name will convey her wish. Santana nods, understanding, her eyes riveted to the horizon.
A young soldier crashes into their path, eyes flashing with panic and a stolen saber clutched in shaking hands. His gaze locks upon the gun in Brittany's arms, nothing aside from the threat registering in his head. He hears not Santana's scream for his halt, only sees another supposed ally moving toward him.
He won't hesitate again.
Brittany pushes Santana behind her just as his saber slices down through the sleeve of her coat and into her forearm. Her scream is caught in her throat, a blinding rush of pain flooding her senses.
Her rifle clatters to the ground, forgotten.
The soldier realizes his mistake as his eyes register the make of the weapon and the winter coat upon her frame. He withdraws the saber, a whimpered cry of pain finally spilling from Brittany's lips.
He stumbles back, pale, stammering pathetically, "I-I'm sorry! I'm—"
"I'LL KILL YOU!" Santana screams, rage swelling within her as she lunges at him.
But strong fingers clutch to her arm, pulling her back. "No..." Brittany whispers, her grip weakening. The eruption of fury within Santana ebbs instantly, her wide eyes turning from the soldier to Brittany.
He takes off, leaving the two alone once more.
The lane is empty. Roaring fires grow unimpeded, devouring the camp as the flames rise high into the night air. Dawn is forgotten in favor of burning orange and clouds of blackest smoke. Great swatches of firelight ripple across the path and deserted tents, ash falling from the infernos. A few pieces stick to Santana's lashes and she blinks back the tears in her eyes, not caring for the destruction rupturing around them.
Her gaze is riveted to Brittany's arm, where the sleeve has been consumed, soaked through with blood.
"Brittany…" she utters her name as if the mere sound of it pains her. Santana gingerly pries Brittany's arm from where she clutches it to her chest, heart twisting as Brittany lets out a hiss of pain. "I'm s-sorry," she murmurs brokenly, her eyes lifting to meet Brittany's own. "I have to see if—" the sentence is left unspoken, the ache the words would bring too much to bear. She gently pulls back the sleeve to Brittany's coat, careful not to aggravate the wound beneath any more than necessary. Brittany's hand is stained red with blood already; the wound is obviously in dire need of attention.
Gunfire whirs pass them, far too close. They can't stay here. Santana clamps her hand firmly over the coat sleeve and wound, ignoring the holler of pain from Brittany.
She knows she needs to get her to the field hospital immediately. Before—
"Am I…" Brittany begins to ask, turning away to quell the wave of nausea that erupts in her gut. Her eyes find those of Santana's, pained more by the sheer dread held within. "Am I to b-be like Sam?"
Santana immediately shakes her head quickly. "No, no; I'll fix this," she tells her, voice thick, a sob caught in her throat. "I swear it. Come on!"
They begin walking quickly, Santana never once letting go of Brittany's arm.
"I don't feel good no more," Brittany tells her, leaning into Santana's side. Her teeth are clenched tight against the throbbing sting of pain rolling up her arm; it's unlike any she's ever felt before. She feels unsteady, sick. "Santana…"
Santana wraps her free arm behind Brittany's lower back, holding her secure. "We're almost to the field hospital, just a bit more," she tells her, relived when the top of the tent is finally in sight. Only a few yards more, she tells herself. A few yards more and you can help her. Brittany sags against her; Santana fears shock is soon to set in. She shakes Brittany, increasing their pace. "Stay with me Britt, please. Almost there!"
Two rounds of cannon fire explode in the distance; upon impact a shower of flames cascades from the sky. The air sizzles, thick ash sucked into their lungs as they breathe. Brittany coughs, slumping into Santana's side. Santana strains beneath Brittany's full weight, willing her body to gather strength. Sweat pours from her face, lungs starved for air. Just a few paces more…
Her body gives out entirely as they pass through the tent flaps, both of them falling to the floor inside the field hospital.
"God, Santana!"
Michael, Santana thinks, mind reeling as his voice registers in her head.
"Get him to the estate! NOW!"
She doesn't know what he's shouting about but can feel someone hoisting her up to unsteady feet, a biting smell quick to invade her senses. She snaps to, coughing, lungs desperate to expel the ash trapped inside. Michael holds her upright to one side, in the hands of the nurse ahead is an uncorked bottle of whiskey. The pungent alcoholic odor still stings in her nose as she breathes hard. Alert, her eyes sharpen and grow wide as she stands erect.
"Are you all right?" Michael asks her, taking her face between his hands as he inspects her eyes. "I don't think you concussed. Can you focus on my nose? Good. Left ear?" As her eyes move toward his ear he pulls her into a tight hug. "Thank god you made it."
Santana returns the hug but for a second before pushing him away, craning her neck in search of Brittany.
Michael immediately knows who she is looking for. "We're moving everyone to the Banks estate, just up on the hill," he explains, leading Santana through the throngs of patients hastily being moved. Cots are overturned, medical supplies spilled out from their crates across the floor. A few nurses hurry forth, expressions frantic as they usher patients out the tent. "It's safer there, Major Keller is worried the cannon fire is getting too close."
"Where is she?" Santana asks, growing ever more impatient and ever more anxious.
"We'll tend to her once we're at the estate," Michael assures.
Santana grabs him by the arm, spinning him to face her as she snarls out, "Where is she?"
Michael points off to the side, where sure enough Brittany is held up between two medics. Her head sags against her chest, arm wrapped in a strip of thin fabric, one Santana knows is not enough quell the blood flow. It's already stained red.
Cannon fire shakes the foundations of the massive tent.
"We can't help her here, Santana," Michael whispers to her earnestly, warily eyeing the oil lamps hanging from their supports against the tent posts. They sway from their rigging, precariously close to dropping. The field hospital will be lost in minutes if even but one flame is to touch upon the canvas. Major Keller is right in ordering everyone to abandon, he thinks.
Santana sees not the peril in the tent, focused as she is upon Brittany. She shoves Michael from her path and runs headlong for her.
"Leave him!" she shouts to the medics, waving frantically for them to stop. One peers at her from over his shoulder, recognition instantly causing his steps to halt. His partner stills, ensuring the soldier held between them is kept balanced. Santana hurries forward, fingers quick to feel for a pulse along Brittany's neck. It's there; considerably slow but there. Relief overwhelms her as she motions down to a nearby cot. The medics obey, needing no further instruction. They are careful as they place Brittany down, mindful of the way Santana squats between the soldier's legs, her hands firm in their grip upon Brittany's jaw. They step aside, awaiting their next command, hands nervously fidgeting by their sides.
"Help the others!" Michael tells them as he hurries over. They nod, quickly moving aside to assist the remaining men.
Santana pats Brittany's cheek, urging her eyes to open. Outside the gunfire draws nearer, cannon blasts shaking the tent with more force.
Michael drops to his knees beside Santana, laying a pleading hand atop her arm. "We need to go, Santana!"
There are tears back in her eyes as the turns to him. "She needs sutures! You know she does. Bandages won't stop this bleeding! Help me."
"If we stay any longer—"
"They won't fire upon a field hospital!" She screams at him, desperate for the time she needs to help Brittany. "It's inhumane!"
The hand upon her arm tightens, Michael moving closer, his eyes earnest as he implores to what he hope remains of her reason. "You weren't in the battle trenches, Santana," he tells her evenly, honest. "This matters not to them. So long as you are in their range of fire you are one less Northerner they need worry about in the world. This tent will burn if so much as one of those lamps falls due to their barrage."
"Only a few minutes, please," Santana begs, voice trembling. She understands his words but she cannot leave Brittany in this state. Not with a pulse so weak she fears the trip to the estate will surely be her last minutes upon this land. "Michael, I need to stop the bleeding. If something were to happen, sepsis—"
Michael's stomach knots upon hearing word of the infectious ailment. It is a grave possibility, and Brittany's pallid complexion is already evidence that she's suffering from significant blood loss. He nods. "Get her to wake, I'll fetch a clean kit."
He takes off into the tent, kicking over boxes and cots in search of the necessary supplies. The patients have all been cleared, no one remaining save for the three of them. Santana turns back to Brittany, patting harder against her cheek this time as she holds firm pressure over the wound. The blood is still seeping freely, even through the thick layer of her coat sleeve. "Come on, Britt," she beseeches, praying for those blue eyes to open. "I need you awake. Please."
Santana cringes before landing a smack against Brittany's cheek.
Brittany startles, inhaling sharply. Her eyes open but a fraction as she breathes out, "San…"
Santana surges forward, kissing her hard. Brittany can feel warm lips against hers, desperate in their touch. The familiar sensation of warmth fills her stomach as she leans into the kiss. It tastes of salt, wet with Santana's tears but in that moment she feels not the burning ache rendered in her arm. She breathes in deeply as Santana pulls away, the pain once again returning.
"I'm going to fix this," Santana tells her, tearing off the bandage with a yank before easing up the sleeve of her coat. She needs to see this wound, the extent to the damage wrought by that idiotic boy. If she ever sees the likes of him again—
"I want to go home," Brittany confesses, crying as her nerves spike with renewed biting vigor. "Please… can we go?"
Santana ceases in her work, hands quick to frame Brittany's cheeks as she presses their foreheads together. "We're going to leave soon, Britt," she speaks in a hushed earnest whisper, a kiss briefly planted against parted lips. As she pulls back she can see Brittany struggling to keep her eyes open. "I promise we'll be home soon, just stay awake for me, all right?"
"I'm trying…" Brittany whispers, eyes widening for but a second before growing heavy once again. Santana gives Brittany's head a gentle shake. Brittany swallows hard, eyes blinking open quickly.
"Stay with me," Santana whispers as Michael returns with kit in hand. Santana is quick to get to work, passing the needle and spindle to Michael for threading whilst she fills an empty syringe with opium. Just enough for the pain to cease, she thinks, knowing Brittany must be alert enough for them to get her safely up the hill. Brittany sways in front of her, injured arm hugged protectively to her chest. Santana reaches forward, holding her steady. Michael quickly rolls up the rest of the tattered sleeve of Brittany's shirt, revealing the ruinous nature of the wound. It is a deep, ugly gash, ragged in its path through the layers of muscle down to her bone. A cold sweat breaks across Santana's forehead at the sight. She's not the time to properly tend to the injury now, not in the way Brittany needs care.
A booming round of gunfire blares from outside the tent, oil lamps rattling in the trembling wake.
Santana stills her lungs and waits for the shaking to subside before she pierces Brittany's upper arm with the syringe. As the morphine enters Brittany's blood she grows slack in her posture, the once rigid arc of her spine curving as her shoulders slump and the taut line of her jaw loosens. Santana tosses the empty syringe aside, relieved by Brittany's more relaxed state. Michael is quick to hand her the suture needle, thread ready for use. Brittany breathes in deeply and a dull sting of pain erupts over her wound as Michael pours a great deal of alcohol atop.
"Can I have some?" Brittany asks, wishing nothing more than to pour the liquid down her throat and make this all go away.
"It's for infection," Santana explains, though softly Brittany notes, not in the brusque way she is wont to do with most, if not all, her patients. She barely feels the needle entering her skin or the kiss Santana brushes against her cheek afterward. Michael watches Brittany's face raptly, his eyes sharp, checking for something she can't be sure of. It's as if he's afraid she will die, right here in front of him. She holds his gaze for a while, trying to muster a smile to her lips. He must see it for he gives her a shaky one in return.
Santana remains focused, deftly stitching up Brittany's wound as best she can. She's only on her fifth line when Burt enters the field hospital, limping considerably, a frantic expression upon his strained face.
"Girls!" he half laughs and shouts as his gaze lands upon them, relieved to have found them at last. He hobbles toward them, skipping every third or so step along his bum knee. Santana never once looks up, though Brittany meets his eyes, her own relief tantamount. She reaches for him with her good hand as he nears and Burt clasps his own around hers, wheezing as he tries to calm himself. He's so glad to have found her, both of them. His gaze settles upon where Santana works and he must resist the gasp wishing to issue forth. "Brittany… good god…"
"She'll be all right," Santana says, happy that he's found them but unwilling to give him more of her attention. Brittany's muscle is a mess of tatters, her blood still filling the wound even with the tourniquet Michael saw fit to wrap about her bicep. "She'll be all right," she repeats, though knows it is more for her benefit than Burt's.
There's a low whistle heard outside before the ground shakes upon impact of a cannon blast into the neighboring tent.
"Santana," Michael warns.
"I've not finished!" Santana exclaims, trying to be heard over an explosion from down the lane. The field hospital rattles in its wake, Brittany hissing in pain as the needle in Santana's hand accidentally pierces deeper into her skin than need be.
Santana curses beneath her breath, stealing an apologetic glance up toward Brittany. Their gazes meet briefly, the smallest of brave smiles forming at the corner of Brittany's lips. A calm settles in Santana's heart at the look, chest growing warm. The welcome feeling is lost, replaced by the pierce of fear as another blast of cannon fire screams through canvas tent above, ripping through the roof before gutting the main support beam. The wood splinters, exploding in a shower of chips and debris. The lamps suspended from the post line crash to the floor, fire quick to engulf the sections of tent dangling from the open ceiling above. Within seconds the blaze rages high, consuming the treated canvas material in a wave of heat. It burns against Santana's face as she shields Brittany's arm from the sparks and bites off the remaining suture thread from the needle. She isn't anywhere near finished, but they must move. Now.
"GET OUT!" Burt is shouting to be heard over the roar of the flames as he pulls both women up to their feet. A large section of tent comes undone, a wave of heat rolling across their bodies as it falls to the ground. Santana grabs for the roll of bandages in the medical kit, quickly wrapping Brittany's arm as Burt and Michael guide them out the tent.
Outside the tent the battle rages on, Northern soldier pitied against Southern, coats shed in the heat of combat and flames. Santana holds Brittany close as Michael and Burt carve a path ahead through the outer fringe of the fighting. In the distance she can see the hill they make headway toward, the lights of the Bates estate glowing strong even from afar.
"We're almost home, Britt!" Santana says loudly, hoping Brittany has heard her over the chaos engulfing them. There's a slight nod from Brittany, and the hand she's clasped on Santana's shoulder tightens.
Michael quickly swoops to pick up a musket from a fallen soldier, slinging it over his shoulder as he pushes onward. Burt's arm is slung around Brittany's back, his limp slowing their pace but welcome in Brittany's indisposed condition. A few soldiers collapse to the ground in their path, groaning, clutching at gunshot wounds embedded deep in their thighs. Michael steps over them, wishing to offer them help but knowing there is little to be done.
Death is already thick in the air, in the smell of blood upon the hands of many and in the smoke burning in their lungs. Santana looks over her shoulder at the carnage, terrified to find they've barely made it but a few yards from the field hospital.
As if by purpose the army pushes back, the few steps that once separated them from the fight lost. Michael is but an arm's length away as men converge around them, his dark eyes quickly overtaken with panic as he turns back to Santana. A man swings at him, Michael ducks and quickly lands a punch square to the soldier's face. Santana feels large arms wrap about her middle, Michael's name upon the tip of her tongue when she's pulled out from the mass of bodies.
It is the last time she sees him.
"Michael!" she screams, reaching toward him but he is lost to the battle.
"He'll find us!" Burt shouts, groaning once he lets both women go to clutch his knee. Brittany pulls Santana to her as another cannon flies by, groaning as her sutures dig into her sore flesh. She doesn't let go, hugging her even as the ground shakes terribly and she can feel Santana's tears hot against her neck.
"This is because of you!" a voice bellows from between the tents to their side. Santana looks up, blood running cold as her father limps forward. In his hand he clutches a pistol, blood smeared across his forehead and dripping from one ear. He looks crazed as he motions at the war spreading around them with the gun.
And even over to roar of flames and gunfire his voice rings clear.
"This is His retribution! Your sins being punished! WE BURN FOR YO—!" His spine snaps back, shouts drowned by the errant shot that bursts through his chest. A splutter of blood expels from his throat, eyes wide as his legs give and he crashes, dead, to the ground.
Santana cannot tear her eyes from the sight of him; horror struck at the way his hand still twitches even as the life fades from his dark eyes. Gunfire whizzes overhead, the whistle of minié rounds a crucial cue that they must make haste. Brittany sags against her side, the full weight of her body taxing even in Santana's heightened state of mind. Burt alleviates some of the burden, hoisting Brittany up beneath his own arm.
Not one more thought is spared for her father.
With one arm wrapped securely around Brittany's waist and the other holding tightly to the woman's wrist slung across her shoulders, Santana gives nod to Burt and they make headway toward the hillsides. Men sprint by, orders screamed into the darkest of skies. Brittany breathes unevenly beside her, the bandages wrapped about her arm already soaked through and dripping down her fingers with fresh blood. Santana's heart twists painfully in her chest, knowing she needs to get Brittany to the makeshift hospital at the estate. She can see the lights of the house, a beacon burning bright atop the empty hillside.
Men stumble by, guns clenched in shaking hands as they run to enact the orders of their commanders. It is chaos, another cannon blasted in the distance collides headlong with a few soldiers Santana recognizes from Brittany's company. The sound of their bodies being torn asunder, bones cracking as dirt and blood is thrown into the smoky air, causes Santana's stomach to finally spill bile down to her feet.
Brittany holds fast, conscious thought returning as Santana doubles over beside her. Her vision is a blur of dizzying colors but her mind can grasp the smell now drifting up toward her. Her own stomach clenches, wishing to follow suite, but she forces the vomit down, willing the pain in her arm to subside and her thoughts to focus. The pain does not diminish; the sting of the gash nearly blinding at times even with the opium coursing through her blood. Splotches of white dance in her vision, Burt's hold upon her tightening. She reaches a hand forward, entirely unaware it is the one slick with her blood until the broken muscle in her arm protests firmly, a scream rendered from her throat as nausea overwhelms her and she falls down to a knee.
They both shout for her, but it is Santana's voice that registers most.
"Brittany!" It's a hoarse call, scared. She feels Burt's hands pulling her back up to her feet once again. Over top Brittany's head Burt's eyes meet Santana's. She can see forgiveness in his gaze, sorrow. Yet all is drowned by the utmost worry of a father.
Another round of gunfire tears through the air, the sting of a fresh slash cut through Santana's shoulder by a passing bullet. She bites her tongue hard, gripping firm to Brittany as she hauls the woman against her and hurries them down the lane. Her muscles strain, arms nearing the point of convulsing. Burt breathes words of encouragement, his own breath labored as they rush onward.
Brittany's cries are silent, tears thick in their relentless path down her dirtied cheeks.
Michael is gone, Noah is missing…
The low whistle of an approaching cannon round rings overheard, the hair along Santana's arms standing to attention. A stark blur of grey streaks across the sky before the cannon ball tears through the canvas of the armory tent.
There's a clatter of sound, the scraping of metal, a spark of ignition.
Santana barely has the time to throw herself over Brittany when a blast of heat burns against their backs, the sky an explosion of fire as they are thrown back by the blast.
Brittany is the first to stir, not second later. She groans as she forces herself upright, vision nothing but a disorienting vortex of fire and dirt. Her head is spinning, arm now numbed to pain against the adrenaline pumping furiously through her veins. Her voice feels foreign as it leaves her lips, Santana's name charred as it sounds.
"Santana...?" she calls, reaching blindly forward, coughing as smoke fills her lungs. "Burt?"
The briefest flash of a dirtied white skirt enters her sight, obscured as the dust settles around her once more. Brittany's heart stills. She crawls forward, ignoring the soldiers sprinting by, they're nothing but dark shadows against the clouds of smoke rolling through the lane; ghosts. Against the back of her neck she can feel the wind in their wake as they leap over top her. Her hair has come loose, whipping into her face. She cares not for where her cap has been lost, desperate to reach Santana's side.
"San...?" she coughs out, tears once more blurring her vision as the body remains unmoving, face-down in the dirt.
Brittany makes it to her side and uses what's left of her strength to roll Santana to her back. Something has impacted hard into Santana's head, blood matting the hair just over her right ear. Brittany reaches forward tentatively, touching just below the wound.
Santana lets out a hiss of pain, twisting upon the ground from the light touch. She feels as though a tent spike has been driven into her brain; the head pain is the worst she's ever had to endure. Her eyes open, squinting against the pulsing throb of ache rendered into her skull. Brittany sits beside her, face hovering mere inches above her… hair a wild mess tumbling down her head.
A female scream tears through the air. Down the lane a nurse is being dragged off, shrieking as she kicks against the men holding her captive. Santana knows the look upon those soldier's faces; she has had it focused upon her enough times for her gut to coil now even in remembrance. Nothing ever befell her but the nurse...They will force themselves upon that woman, without qualm or remorse.
Her dress feels heavy against her frame, a target if ever there was one. She swallows thickly, looking up at Brittany. She cannot let the same befall her. Not when she can be spared from the violence she's sure the nurse is now enduring. No one will think twice of her without the betraying locks of her long blonde hair.
A fallen southern soldier lies nearby and Santana is quick to pull his bowie knife free from his belt sheath. Brittany barely has time to react when Santana sits up, a moan of pain the only sound she's able to make. And then Santana hacks at Brittany's hair, cutting away long sections haphazardly until all that remains is a mess of short blonde that falls just against her brow. Brittany remains still as Santana works, knowing this moment was to come. She watches, despondent, as her hair falls, watches as it is consumed by the muddy ground.
It will grow back, she tells herself. Santana just wants me safe.
She cries silently nonetheless.
Santana tosses the knife aside, relieved for at least this moment. She wishes to collapse back to the ground, exhausted. She cannot run anymore; her head is still ringing from the blast and she's sure the hearing in her right hear has been damaged beyond repair. But Brittany takes her gently by the hand, tugging her up until they are both back upon their feet.
"I don't know where Burt is," Brittany tells her, pulling Santana along as she searches for him. He can't be too far, she thinks, hoping with all her heart he's all right. The smoke is still thick in the lane, hovering about without a lick of wind to scatter it to the heavens. She hears a groan from somewhere to her left, familiar in its gruffness.
Heart swelling, she pulls Santana in the direction of the sound.
Her head explodes with renewed pain not three steps later as the butt of a rifle collides solidly against its side. She bites down hard on her tongue as she's thrown back by the hit, colliding with Santana and causing them both to crash down to the ground. She can feel hands roughly taking hold of her coat as she's forced up to her knees. She sways, vision still swimming as she looks over toward Santana. She vaguely feels the cool tip of a bayonet against the back of her neck, only registers the look of absolute terror in Santana's eyes.
She wants to tell her this is all a dream, surely. They'll wake soon, and together they'll eat breakfast, the sun rising on a new day.
But she feels the pull of sleep weighing heavy upon her limbs and mind. So very faint...
"San…" Brittany whispers as her eyes flutter closed and she passes out, crumbling to the ground.
"Move not one muscle, lass," speaks one of the Southerners behind.
The press of a rifle is foreign against Santana's back, her breathing staggered as her eyes remain upon Brittany. Please, god, Santana prays, let them leave her.
For she knows nothing could be worse than being the captured prisoners they now are.