AN: Holy poop you guys! I never thought I would see this day but you all have exceeded my capacity for being able to reply to reviews haha. To those that didn't get answers I'm so sorry! There were just so many of you that left such awesome comments I didn't have the time to get back to everyone. Loving that so many of you are enjoying the story! Feeling the catch 22 of not being able to personally thank you anymore because of it. Though if you've left a question in yours I will definitely make sure to respond! And in the future as well. :)
Moving on to topics of interest. My beta is going on a trip soon so I have a choice to make about the next update. Either I postpone it a bit until she's back or I have someone else beta chapter 18. In which case if anyone is up for helping out shoot me a PM as I'd really like to keep to my schedule. :) Here's to hoping she's able! You have big shoes to fill otherwise haha.
Chapter 17
Love is not a Victory March
Nothing has prepared Santana for this moment. As if anything could have, she thinks sardonically to herself, heart still racing wildly in her chest. She is coping as best she's able with her body upon the absolute brink of collapse whilst her mind relentlessly revisits the endless whir of gruesome scenarios she fears soon to unfold. She never imagined, not even in the darkest corners of her most depraved thoughts, that this could be an actuality. Death surely, the most probable cause some disease. She wasn't much for imagining the more sordid details of her demise but being at war had them crossing her mind more often than not. It was hard not to ignore the men dying around her; at least a few passed everyday. But she has grown numb to finding their bodies come morn. It is a dawn routine, touching the necks of the sleeping patients, just waiting for the one with skin cool to her fingertips and the heart stilled beneath his ribs.
To die made sense.
But to be captured?
Impossible.
Neither Brittany nor herself was to ever be on the field of battle; never within a mile of any fighting. And yet here she finds herself, head still throbbing from a wound she can't remember sustaining, ear clogged so thickly with a liquid she's sure must be blood per the warm way it seeps down her neck. And worst of all Brittany… Good, innocent, tolerant Brittany lies unconscious not a foot away. Santana never prepared for this moment for it was never to be. But it is, and what more, it is so very frighteningly real. Every brush of warm wind from the fires that touches her cheek is seared, unforgettable, into her mind. Every blast of a cannon fired overhead stabs a painful rhythm in her ear. The smell of bitter smoke shall never leave her, nor the hint of blood she can taste upon her tongue.
And the sight of Brittany…
Santana closes her eyes tight.
There is a very real gun pressed solidly against Santana's back but it unnerves her not. She's grown accustomed to the feel of the metal in mere seconds. For with it upon her it cannot turn down to Brittany. And Santana wishes for nothing more than these men to forget who's fallen before them.
Let them leave her, she wills silently, but more yet, let her still breathe. Please…
Santana's eyes open and immediately find Brittany again. So riveted she is to ensuring the woman is alive that she's ceased focusing upon anything but her need to reach out and touch that pale skin, to make sure it is still warm beneath her fingers.
Brittany is so still, curled on the ground in the most twisted of positions. Santana cannot see her injured arm but knows from the contorted way Brittany's shoulders press against the dirt it must be trapped beneath her body. Her short hair is pushed forward, matted with sweat and soot where it falls just over her eyes. Her back does not rise or fall with life, her only visible cheek is devoid of its usual pink hue. But the pain once etched so deeply into her brow is gone, erased with coma. She looks so tranquil…
Santana's mouth has gone dry. The men behind her speak in hushed whispers but their words don't ever quite make it to her ears. All she hears is her own heart, the echo of it deafening as it reverberates in her head. Faster, more frantic, her own breaths stutter as they push in and out past her chapped lips. She can't control the panic seizing her heart or the hot tears now springing to her eyes. Brittany is so still… and yet…
There's a subtle movement of dirt beneath Brittany's nose, so slight Santana feels she's imagined the moment. But the soil is pushed again, a little farther this time.
Brittany still breathes.
Santana doesn't realize she's crying freely until she licks her lips and tastes the salt of her tears upon her tongue.
Brittany is still alive.
All else matters not.
Her knees give out finally and she falls back atop her heels.
"What'd I say about movin'!" One of the soldiers hollers down at her, forcing her back up to her knees once more. Santana's thighs are shaking, muscles straining to maintain her posture even as her body screams for release from this torment.
The rifle rises against her spine, a tremor provoked down her back as she shivers against the movement. It is both unwelcome and petrifying. Do not move it toward her, she prays, still unwilling to look away from Brittany. The soldier hooks the tip of the rifle beneath her collar and gives a tug, "This here coat, it's yours?" he asks.
Santana nods, head pounding as she answers hoarsely, "Yes…"
He prods the gun into the back of her neck. "If you're lyin' to me—"
"It is mine! I swear it!" she tells him quickly, louder than she anticipated.
There's laughter meeting her ears, uneven in its pattern. She cannot tell how many are behind her, nor where they stand. Her entire world feels tilted all of the sudden, weight heavier on the right of her body. She gives her head a shake, regretting the move as pain spikes in her broken ear canal and a relentless thump of sorts hammers against her temples. She blinks back the tears collecting once more in her eyes, praying for Brittany to be left well and alone.
"A woman surgeon?" the soldier asks through sputtering chuckles. "And you reckon us the mad ones!"
"What of this one then?" the other man asks, kicking one of Brittany's legs.
Santana's vision tunnels, blood pumping fiercely through her veins as she exclaims, "Leave him!"
The gun is driven into her back hard, nearly toppling her to the ground at the force. She holds herself steady, heart pounding furiously now in fear instead of rage.
"Please," she amends, hoping the quiver she can feel in her hands does not translate to her voice. "He's hurt and of no use to you, just leave him, please."
"My gun saw to that hurt all right," the soldier at her back says, voice layered with obvious pride. Santana bristles at the sound and digs her fists deep into her skirt. "I could leave him, but I don't believe you none, lass. This here coat must be his, but I'll be damned if you prove otherwise, so get up."
Santana is pulled roughly to her feet, her arm taken by the soldier at her back. His hand wraps clear around her bicep, hold strong. She chances a glance up, surprised by the sheer height of the man. He very much reminds her of Finn but his height is where the similarities end. For this man's expression holds no capacity toward sympathy, his lips hidden beneath a thick black moustache. His eyes focus upon her, hardened and the color lost in the dark of the sky. Santana holds the gaze, unwilling to bend to his influence. Not even as his fingers squeeze around her muscles and she can feel the beginnings of bruises blooming across her skin.
"I reckon you a liar and a harlot," he snarls down at her before nodding toward his companion and waving his gun down to Brittany. "Pick that one up. Whichever one of 'em is the surgeon will fetch us a good bargain come the exchange."
She wants to ask him what he means but knows his temper is already strained from her resistance. So she watches, helpless, as the soldier hauls Brittany from the ground and up over his shoulder. Blood is still trickling from her arm, slower now as it drips down to the ground with even plops. Santana instantly moves to step closer but the hand upon her arm tightens, and she is forced to remain by the tall soldier's side.
"Please, his arm—" Santana begins to say but is cut off with a jab of an elbow hard into her flank. She bites her tongue to keep the groan from escaping her throat.
Then his voice washes over her, breath hot and unwelcome against her broken ear. "Speak another word and I leave your body here to burn."
She does not challenge him, simply nods her consent. He begins walking and she hurries to keep stride beside him as he leads her from out the battle tearing through the camp. Cannons are still being shot, the sound and smell of gunfire prevalent in the air. The war raging on.
Santana knows not where this soldier is taking her but wherever it is, she and Brittany are both going.
Santana doesn't know whether she's glad for it or not.
With the dawn has come the end of the battle. The South is victorious, what remains of the Northern brigade is either scattered to the forests, dead, or amassed in internment along the riverbank. It's hard to imagine this is the same place Brittany brought her. Was it truly only a week ago? Santana draws little warmth from the thought. The riverbank is a frigid place now, wind cold as it rolls off the frozen waters and licks at her skin. The beginnings of the morning sun's rays are just cresting over the hillsides, casting a pink hue against the plumes of dark smoke that drift and break overhead. Even the calls of the morning birds have been silenced, replaced with the soft crackle of dying fires in the distance.
The hush of the land chills her more than the breeze. It is as if it, too, mourns the losses of last night's battle.
Those she's surrounded by speak not a single word, heads bowed in defeat.
There are at least a thousand or more Northern men sitting just outside the edge of the tree line with her. Some sit clumped with friends, others shoulder-to-shoulder; backs pressed against backs, huddled close for warmth and solidarity. No one is left alone, not even those in need of a doctors hand. Santana can see the eyes of the men crouched beside their injured companions, gazes pleading with her to help.
There is little she can do though, not without her instruments.
She cannot help anyone.
It is a truth that pains her, deeply so. And thus she can do little more than express her apology in a look, and hope they understand. She's unwilling to rise from where she sits. She cannot abandon Brittany, not even for a minute. They are situated near the edge of the unspoken detention line. Her back is leaned against a tree, legs crossed in front of her with Brittany's head resting gently in her lap.
Santana's fingers continue in their slow path through Brittany's short hair, the same way they have been for over an hour now. Brushing hair back from her warm forehead and down past her left ear. Again, over and over to the point Brittany's hair has seemed to absorb the path and now falls naturally toward the side. Brittany hasn't stirred since the southern soldiers brought them to the riverbank and dumped her unceremoniously to the ground. Her brow knotted then, pained even in sleep. Santana lashed out at the soldier holding her, her nails able to render a series of scratches against his face before his fist met her stomach and she too joined Brittany upon the muddy riverbed.
There were only a handful of Northern men then, not one electing to help her as she dragged Brittany up to drier land. The men sat hunched with their legs drawn to their chests and eyes darting from the dark river water to the Southern guards posted in a perimeter a few yards around. She knows they considered fleeing, willing to risk crossing the frozen waters in lieu of remaining captive.
But they stayed and more men were brought in. More guards posted. A few brave enough to speak up asked what was to become of them but their questions were only met with stony silence and the occasional rifle butt to the gut. The men learned to keep quiet.
It was hopeless to even think of escaping.
There is nothing can be done. Nothing aside from wait.
Time passes slowly, the sun ever so dawdling in its ascent into a red sky. Santana looks down upon Brittany for what feels like the thousandth time, her fingers making their umpteenth journey through her hair. She checks her arm, the bandage having been retied the moment she settled her down. It's stopped bleeding, but the color has yet to return to Brittany's face, her heart still so weak as it beats against her chest.
"I'm so sorry, Britt," Santana tells her, an apology she knows is spoken to deaf ears. Brittany can no more feel her touch than she can hear her words. But there is some manner of peace in Santana whenever she speaks her regrets. As if simply acknowledging her wrong aloud will make the hurt it's caused just that much less. She regrets ever staying in that tent.
Michael was right, she thinks, resigned. They should have fled, wrapped Brittany's arm tight in whatever material was available and made run straight for the Bates estate. She knows the Southern force has not taken the makeshift hospital. She sees not the balding head of Major Keller among the captured men; he'd have been brought here for sure if the South had managed to seize the home.
…Or had all the hospital staff and patients perished in cannon fire?
Shot down before they even reached the hill?
The uncertainty of it all is what gives her regrets pause.
At least Brittany is with her now.
She has but that one comfort.
The silence is broken by the arrival of a new group of men. Santana cranes her neck to see over the heads of those scattered ahead of her. All she's able to glimpse are flashes of movement. From the sounds of it more of their own men are being brought to internment. Some struggle against their Southern captors, others stoic as they are pushed past the line of guards. There are only perhaps a dozen of them she thinks, counting at least seven Northern coats in varying stages of disrepair before her vision is blocked.
A few men sitting on the ground spring up, grins upon their faces as they embrace friends. Santana watches them, glad and envious of their reunions. The new captives seem no worse for wear, a few scratches and pulled muscles at most. The blood stained proudly upon their coats is obviously of southern kind.
Santana's breath catches as she realizes Noah is among them. Soldiers clap him upon the shoulder, no words exchanged aside from the unspoken given in nods of respect. His thoughts are elsewhere, nods misplaced as his eyes scan across the riverbed. Santana can see the taut line of his clenched jaw even from afar. Worry now creases his brow.
She wishes to call for him but feels her voice absent, the gleam of the Southern guards' guns silencing any greeting she could utter.
All she can offer is a raise of her hand and a hope he finds her.
And when Noah does spot her finally she thinks she's never seen him look so thankful. He makes his way through the crowds of men, grinning broadly as he hurries toward her. She's no idea why a smile comes to her own lips, but it does, his own only seeming to brighten more in reaction. He's by her side before she knows it, falling to his knees and wrapping her in a tight hug.
"Thank god you're alive," he whispers, voice thick with tears. He doesn't let go immediately, simply breathing in deep as he holds her close. She's all right, he repeats to himself, elated to have found her. When he does pull back, he sees who is nestled in her lap and the question upon his mind is immediately answered. Cold is quick to replace the warmth that just mere seconds before flourished in his heart. He reaches out, tentative as he touches the tips of his fingers to Brittany's temple. "Santana," he says, swallowing hard as he looks back up into her eyes. "Is she…?"
Santana shakes her head, her voice lowered, tenuous, as she tells him, "She's just sleeping. One of our own, he had a saber—"
Noah pulls her into another hug before she can even finish. Her arms wrap behind his back, her hold upon him tight. Fraught even with all her anxieties for his wellbeing. She can't describe how grateful she is that he's alive, let alone among the lucky few to have made it from the fight unharmed. As he pulls back she notices small cuts carved into the skin of his cheeks. Whether by blade or nails she's unsure, nor does she wish to imagine how they came to be.
"Have you seen Michael or Burt?" she asks quietly, watching his face raptly for any sign of their fate. But his own expression has grown grim as he stares down upon Brittany.
"No…" he says so softly that she almost doesn't hear. When he turns to her, his smile is forced, eyes betraying the confidence in his voice, "I'm sure they're all right." He scratches at his face as he settles close beside her, the sound of his stubble loud as it echoes in the silence of the air.
It is such a familiar sound, one that calms Santana as she leans her shoulder against his. Michael and Burt made it out, she tells herself. They must have.
"How about yourself?" he asks her softly as he takes Brittany's hand within his own. Santana watches him gently flex Brittany's fingers, his bottom lip tightly pulled between his teeth as he stares down at the unmoving woman.
"I'm not the one you should be worrying for," she tells him. He looks up at her, pleading in his gaze for her truthful response. Santana lets out a sigh, "I think my eardrum has ruptured, or at the very least my inner canals have suffered a trauma and liquid has—"
Noah shakes his head, a strange smile curling to his lips as he nudges her side gently and asks, "How's about in a way I get?"
"My head hurts and I'm starving," she says, appreciative for the bit of humor. Yet when she looks back down to Brittany the small smile upon her face falls. "She needs help, Noah."
"We'll be exchanged soon, you can help her then," he tells her and Santana wishes she could believe him. The guards look nowhere near ready to receive orders to muster their captives. Half of them even seem to be dozing off against the trees. No one is soon to come with word of their release. And of what Santana can recall of exchanges it was only ever those in positions of power that are traded. Captains for captains, commanders, generals… Men indispensible to the regiment.
Not foot soldiers, not couriers, and certainly never a woman. But there is a chance she knows, however slight it may be, that Major Keller has survived and he's asked for her return. Surgeons are few and far between, especially ones as skilled as she's become.
Do they wish her free? Is she worth the release of whatever Southern lieutenant they've captured… if they've captured anyone…
Santana doesn't even wish to think what would happen if Brittany is not upon the parole call. She's little time left to continue on untreated.
"She needs help now," Santana hisses to Noah.
He turns towards her, anxious. "Is there anything we can do?"
Santana's anger dissolves at his question. It is an innocent enough response, one born of his devotion to Brittany. And the look he gives her is the same one of anguish worn upon the men who sit beside their fallen friends. Her chest constricts, heart pained once more. "There's nothing..." she whimpers.
Noah lets go of Brittany's hand to slide his own behind Santana's back and draw her near. She instantly folds into his side, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. "Just hold on, okay? It can't be much longer," he whispers to her. "You know they'll want you both back."
Her tears stream fast down her cheeks as she shakes her head. He doesn't think he'll be called. And Brittany…
"Noah," she chokes out.
He squeezes her shoulder. "I'll be just fine, Santana," he says, a forced chuckle leaving his lips soon after. "Big guy like me? These greybacks won't bother me none. Just you see. They'll be beggin' for my parole after I'm through."
Brittany doesn't stir, not even as Santana begins crying. Nor when silent sobs wrack her body and hot tears drip down upon Brittany's forehead.
Sleep has overtaken Santana, something Noah is most glad for. She'd exhausted herself into a stupor and dozes now still leaned against his shoulder. He hasn't moved in clear over three hours now, checking every so often for Brittany's even breaths and that Santana remained undisturbed. She's suffered enough, he thinks as he keeps himself still and watches for sign of stirring from the guards. Her worries and pains would only exacerbate the longer the minutes pass on.
At least this way she can rest before whatever is to come.
She's sure to be called.
Both his girls will be.
He's not a stupid man, no matter how many times he's been told so in his life. He knows it's foolish to think his name will be among the few for parole. He only hopes the Southerners are still being lenient with those not exchanged. Wasn't it just this summer he heard word of McClellan's Army being overtaken up in Virginia? The greybacks let every single damn captive walk free! A vow to never take up arms and that was that, off those men went, back to their families. It wasn't a disgrace, it was a blessing.
And all of it scuttlebutt, Noah reminds himself. No more a truth than any other story of freedom circling camp. He hasn't met one soul who could corroborate it and doubts they'll be showed the same compassion they all described now. Why bother fighting at all if you knew surrender would lead to freedom from service?
He'll be lucky if he's taken South and exchanged in a month.
Whatever is to be, no one will simply be let go.
It's nearing midday when the guards finally start to assemble in some manner of order. Not soon after a decorated Southern officer finally deigns to speak with them. Noah nudges Santana awake, sorry to have to interrupt her much needed rest but knowing she'd be upset with him if he let her sleep through this arrival. She rises groggy from his shoulder, eyes not quite open as she orients herself up. But she's snapped awake the moment her focus lands upon Brittany.
"Look," Noah whispers, not wishing for her to look despondent any longer. He nods toward the river where the officer stands.
The man barely looks up from the sheet of paper he holds in his hand, an expression of utmost concentration upon his brow. He seems to be muttering something beneath his breath, eyes shrouded in the shade of his cap. After a moment he gives a wave of his hand and the young soldier beside him straightens tall, clearing his throat.
"Soldiers are to approach once their name has been called!" the boy bellows, his voice not quite matured, cracking at points. Santana can't think him any older than fifteen. He seems to recoil at the attention poured toward him from the Northern men. He shrinks a bit in his posture as he says with a little less power, "If you're found to by lyin' you'll be shot."
The commanding officer steps forward, giving nod to the boy as he calls aloud from the list, "Lieutenant Cooter!"
A burly man stands to his feet and makes his way toward the Southern officer. Santana cannot hear the exchange between the men, but can see the Lieutenant smile before being escorted through the forest in the direction she knows their camp still rests.
"Sergeant Major Doyle!"
It carries on for at least a dozen more men before the southern officer's expression grows quizzical and he calls, "Lopez, S!"
Noah shakes her gently, grinning as he urges her to stand. Santana has ceased breathing, staring dumfounded at the officer.
The man grows impatient. "Is there a Lopez among you lot?"
A few heads turn toward Santana, gazes filled with longing for the same call.
She can't speak though, let alone muster the strength to rise to her feet.
Another Northern soldier answers for her, pointing in her direction as he hollers aloud, "She's just there!"
The Southerner's eyes land upon her, squinted in scrutiny. Surely this is some ruse, he thinks. There is no mention upon the list provided of any women, but than again it was uncommon for the soldiers to ever bring one for exchange. Typically within minutes of capture they would dissolve into sobbing messes that caused him endless head pains. They were hardly worth the trouble and proved even more fruitless when it came to parole. Nurses could always be replaced. His expression turns scornful as he realizes perhaps the sole intention for why he is now calling for her liberation. She is a pretty thing, after all; it's not hard to imagine her a favorite of the general. Perhaps even a few, he thinks spitefully.
"You've been paroled," he tells her finally, drawing the attention of quite the number of Northern captives with his disparaging tone. A few even go so far as to scowl up at him. The Southern soldier squares his shoulders, ignoring their obvious disdain as he motions back toward the forest. "Go."
Noah nudges her, encouraging her to stand. Santana holds tighter to Brittany, unwilling to let go just yet.
The officer advances, livid as he shouts, "Did you not hear me? Be gone woman!"
"Is Pierce listed?" tumbles from her mouth before she's able to form even one coherent thought. The officer's eyes narrow at her but he acquiesces and scans his list.
"Santana, no, go, I'll take care of her," Noah whispers so as to not be overheard. Santana looks toward him, shaking her head. She cannot be separated from Brittany. She'll do whatever it takes to stay. "They'll exchange us in a week no less," Noah says, hoping to reason with her. But he can see that unyielding look in her eyes, the one that has already made up her mind.
"She won't last another day in this condition," She tells him, daring him to even speak a word further. Noah lets out a defeated breath, his gaze turning down to Brittany.
"I've no Pierce on the list!" the officer shouts.
Santana knows what must be done. She takes Brittany's head into her hands and ever so gently places her down in Noah's lap. His eyes are wide, panicked as they lock upon her own. She squeezes his hand before standing to her feet.
"Then I elect to stay," she tells the officer.
"Pardon? Stay?" The man sputters, both shocked and amused. Who does this woman think she is? "That is not—"
"I will stay!" Santana exclaims, heated. She calms not a second later, hiding the way her hands have begun to shake by crossing her arms tightly over her chest "There is no law that forbids it, is there?"
The officer stares at her curiously, his gaze unsettling. Santana remains standing firm her ground even beneath his blatant scrutiny. Even as a mocking smirk crawls to his thin lips and he says, "Of course there isn't. Men aren't that stupid."
Santana never let's her stare falter, not even as she feels her heart beating rapidly against her ribs. "But stupid enough is what you mean, yes?" she asks, eyes narrowing. "You are after all insinuating there's a base amount of stupidity inherent in all men. A sentiment I'm sure your fellow soldiers share otherwise you'd have never said it so confidently."
There's a murmur among the Northern men, some turning to stifle the sounds their obvious amusement. The officer grows red-faced, right to the very tips of his large ears. His eyes dart, cautious toward the guards. Santana dare not turn but she can hear them shifting uncomfortably upon their feet behind her.
The officers eyes finally pierce into her own, his contempt evident as he declares, "Parole forfeited."
"Santana!" Noah hisses as he pulls her back down to the ground. The officer carries on, calling out the last few names upon his list as Noah leans close and intently whispers, "That was your chance!"
Santana merely gives him a silencing look as she sits back against the tree and places Brittany's head back in her own lap. "I can't leave her Noah, you know I can't."
"Insulting him helped none either!"
"You saw how he looked at me. I couldn't—"
"Shut up, clearly," Noah completes for her, though she notices there's a hint of a smile in his tone. And when she looks at him she can see it, just beginning to form at the corner of his mouth. "Well said though."
A thought strikes her, one that has her cheeks growing pale upon realizing, "I could have been shot."
"No," Noah assures her. "Not with your name on the parole. He knows you're of value."
Santana is stunned regardless. "I can't believe I said that."
"I do," Noah says, though he sounds lamented. Santana turns to him, unsurprised to find him looking down upon Brittany. "You are so dumb in love with her."
She cannot deny the truth to his words. Yet the troubled way in which he uttered them… as if this shant be the last he will have to say so. They are almost a warning. Santana cannot think them so. How she feels for Brittany is not a burden. "If it was you he called instead," Santana whispers, and Noah lifts his head just the fraction it takes for his eyes to lock upon hers. "Would you have left us?"
It takes him a moment to answer but when he does it's spoken with a sigh. "No," he says finally. "And I'm sorry, I just—"
"I know," Santana interrupts, giving his hand a squeeze. She can feel fresh blisters dotted on his palm, a reminder if ever there was one of what they've survived. The men he must have killed… she can't help it as her eyes flitter down to the bloodstains on his coat. An odd calming sense settles within her, knowing the blood is not of his veins. She manages a small, shaky smile as she tells him, "And as sorry as I am that you're here I'm… I'm glad for it too."
He pulls her closer until their shoulders rest against the others once more. "We'll get out of this Santana, all of us together. I know it," he tells her earnestly. "Keep faith."
Keep faith, she repeats to herself. How easy it was for him to say that.
For once she wishes she were more like her father, a thought that both haunts and humiliates her. But there is a truth to it. Something she wishes so very much was true of herself. He never forsook his faith, even distorted as it had become. He held onto to it, clutched at it desperately with a grip so unwilling to sever that even in death she could see it inked into the dark depth of his eyes. And for that fraction of a section where life still dwelled within his body she knows he hoped for God to avenge him. That He would rein justice upon her sin. It was a ludicrous hope, surely, but he believed it with all his blackened heart.
She wishes she could believe Noah.
Santana cannot will her head to nod at his words of hope. She feels that faith is not a part of her soul. It is a notion as ridiculous as the stars in the heavens being considered part of the land. There is too much between them; a void so immeasurable in distance it dizzies her now even thinking upon it. There were no stars in the sky last night, be it from the smoke of the fires or God's own will to leave such violence blind to his eye she does not care. She's lost her faith, the emptiness hollowed in its place so vast she feels dazed once more trying to quantify it. There's nothing to fill it with, no amount of prayers or sentiments could ever come close to delivering them from this hell.
Words cannot mend skin.
Looks cannot stave off infection.
She wishes she'd the faith to believe they will be saved. That Brittany will be given the help she so desperately needs.
But there are so many others like her, hurt and curled upon the cold ground. No Southern soldier pays them any mind; not one look of sympathy is spared for their pains.
They are not humans in this moment; not even mere animals she feels.
She certainly feels like one, though. The group of prisoners is similar to a cattle herd waiting to be prodded toward their next destination.
A soldier approaches, one of many she realizes now carrying similar pads of paper as they disperse among the men. She watches as they speak to the men, much kinder in tone than that of the officer whom stood among them not long ago. They seem to be taking down the names of the Northern soldiers, possibly for another chance at parole, Santana thinks.
The Southern soldier nearby finally steps up to them and turns down to her. "Name." It is not a question but a demand.
"Santana…" she trails off, feeling her tongue fall into the place behind her teeth, waiting to form the familiar sound of her surname. It never spills forth. Her eyes shift, down to where Brittany rests in her lap. She's already forfeited parole…
And if Brittany were to wake and hear Santana's name being called again…
The soldier grows impatient, prodding her with his foot. "Name."
"Pierce," Santana answers finally, never once looking away from Brittany. "Santana Pierce."
"And him?" He asks, pointing down with his pencil to Brittany. Santana holds firmer to Brittany's shoulders.
"Bret Pierce," she replies quietly.
The soldier gives a grunt in response, his pencil scratching hastily against his ledger. "Damned Yanks," he grumbles with a shake of his head. "Followin' your men to war and them allowin' it. Some husband you've there. I take it that's his coat you're wearing to boot?"
"It is mine," Santana corrects him, mindful not to let her voice edge toward exasperation. She looks up at the soldier, he's stopped writing, his eyes now focused down upon her with unrestrained bewilderment.
"You? A surgeon?" he asks, sputtering a bit to contain his laughter. The smile that curls to his lips beneath the thick of his mustache is mocking. "Surely you jest."
She makes to retort but Noah's hand wraps tightly about her arm and stills any bitter words upon her tongue. "Noah Puckerman," he says up to the soldier, nodding toward the ledger.
The soldier finishes scrawling Noah's name and is about to turn away when Santana reaches forward, stopping him with a hand placed against his knee. "Please," she begins to say, voice as polite as she's able. "We've injured men in need of help—"
He shakes her hand free with a kick, muttering down to her, "And so are we."
No one comes to them for the rest of the day.
And unlike cattle they aren't granted a morsel of food.
It's well into the night when someone does come. Santana is torn from sleep by a rough shove of her shoulder. She reaches out to brace herself but her body rolls against the impact and she bumps jarringly into Brittany who sleeps beside her. The man doesn't give her time to sit up; with a yank he pulls her to unsteady feet. Santana struggles to grasp what's happening. What little bonfires the men were able to strike have now died and the slim crescent moon barely sheds a drop of light upon the riverbed.
"You're to come with me," is commanded of her, hissed into her ear in an utterly familiar tone. She grows still. What little sleep remains in her is quick to shake from Santana's eyes, her mind instantly rendered sharp as she stares up into the scratched face of her captor. His expression is still as severe as before, more so now in the dark of night.
With a tug he pulls her away from Brittany and Noah.
"No!" Santana digs her heels into the ground, fighting against his hold. Noah instantly rouses at her voice, sitting up from the ground as his eyes train up at the soldier. He makes to move to his feet but is stopped as the man withdraws a pistol, slamming down the hammer as he points it straight to Noah's chest. Noah breathes hard through his nose, hands planted to his sides as he glares up at the soldier.
He watches, restless as the man advances toward Santana and towers over her. "Hush!" The soldier demands of her in a whisper. And then more for Noah's sake, tells her, "You'll be returned."
Noah does not believe the promise of this soldier and shifts against the ground, hoping to align himself in the perfect position to spring forward and catch the man off guard. But he takes one look to Santana, her eyes pleading with him to stay and a single shake of her head is enough for him to know doing so will risk them all.
He settles back down, ignoring the grin he knows the soldier is now wearing upon his face. "If you harm her—" Noah begins to say.
"Then you best hope I don't have to," the soldier interjects as he pockets his pistol. Santana can't take her eyes from Brittany, unwilling to believe she's to be separated from her. He said you'll be returned, she reminds herself, but the thought does little to quell the unease rising in her belly. No good even comes from being stolen at such an hour.
Yet Brittany is being left alone. She'll be unharmed.
Noah will watch over her.
... it is enough.
Santana steps closer toward the soldier, eyes cast down to her feet.
With a nod down to Noah the man squeezes Santana's arm and drags her down toward the river.
"Where am I to be taken?" she asks as he leads her through the rows of sleeping men. She looks back over her shoulder to where Noah stares after her with a look she's never before seen cross his face. True, unadulterated fear. Fear for her.
The soldier gives a hard yank of her arm and she's forced to look forward before she can even manage to mouth a word back to Noah.
"You get no say in this doctor," the soldier sneers, his cynicism obvious. That's not what surprises Santana. His tone is more than anticipated. No, what surprises her is that he's called her a doctor at all. Wasn't he the one so adamant she was lying? Is this to be some test of the validity of the coat still buttoned high up her frame? She's forfeited her parole; what more could she be worth to these men?
A chill settles in her bones when the obvious answer springs to her mind. The nurses' screams still resonate in her head even at the slightest inclination toward such horror. Santana tries slowing their pace but the soldier is stronger, his hold unrelenting. I am not to share his bed, she wills her mind to believe. Not this man who stares at her with such disdain and holds her as if wishing to be free from the touch of her sleeve.
She wants to scream, to demand of him what is to come from this night. She feels she's been thrown back into the heat of camp, desperate to escape once more. The air is thick, her head growing dizzy as she continues to follow him along the empty riverbank.
"We've a camp ahead," he finally speaks, for once his tone devoid of its scorn… devoid of any emotion in actuality.
Her apprehension only increases tenfold.
Her hearing is still muted and she strains to hear anything over the sound of the river running its course beside them. The water muffles the joyous voices of the men in the midst of celebration but the closer they draw near the clearer they become. And the faster her captor's pace grows as well. Santana struggles to keep in stride beneath his hold, feet sinking into the muck of the bank with every step she must jump to keep upright. The soldier plows forward, undeterred by her trouble.
The first tents enter her sight through the thick line of trees. Small, hastily constructed pieces of canvas slung between branches if not hoisted between negligently buried support poles. There are only a few tents, no more than six. She's never seen a camp so small but knows it is probably only one of many erected along the river for the night.
As they reach the edge of the camp a few soldiers drunkenly stumble by, broad grins upon their faces as they look upon Santana.
"Already foun' yerself a fancy girl?" one slurs, cackling loudly as he drinks a great swig of his beer.
"She's dreadful nice lookin'," the other comments, leering at Santana.
A flash of panic seizes Santana at their words. Her eyes instantly draw up to the soldier still holding her tight beside him. He doesn't look her way, simply continues walking her deeper into the camp, never once saying a word to the men they pass, even as they holler calls in appreciation to her retreating back.
It's the same treatment all the way down the one center lane. Heckles and cheers cried as she passes, hands sometimes skimming across her skirt, others bold enough to try and grasp one of her legs. They never touch upon her for long, the soldier leading her quick to divert her away. She doesn't know whether to be grateful or repulsed by his actions. Fear is so thickly coiled in her gut there is little room for reason. But she keeps her expression as neutral as possible, not once letting her anxiety cross her face.
Wherever she is to be taken there is but one thing she cares of.
Brittany is safe.
She's pushed inside a tent no bigger than that of Burt's. And yet within it is densely packed with countless injured men. At least twenty men are squeezed along one wall with no cots, only blankets laid upon the ground as beds. The bandages wrapped about their heads and limbs are thin, soaked through with blood. Bottles of cheap beer and whiskey are clutched in many a soldier's hand if not tossed carelessly to the ground beside them. And the smell, Santana thinks, face scrunching as she's accosted with the smell of bile and waste.
"Ah, you've found her," a man says from just to their left. Santana recognizes him as the officer from earlier. He waves her over hastily, the soldier at her side instantly releasing her in favor of giving a hard shove to her back. Santana stumbles forward, careful not to trip upon any of the men lying below. The officer's brow rises in interest but what little regard he may attribute to her is squelched when he she's finally standing before him. When he finally must tell her why she's been brought here.
"Our only competent surgeon has fallen to the spell of liquor," he explains, motioning for her to follow him toward the rear of the tent. "We don't trust him to spit straight let alone attempt to slice into a man's skin."
"What are you asking me to do?" She asks.
"It is not a request," the officer spins on his heels, eyes narrowing into her own. He points back to the lone operating table where a man lies, looking upon the brink of death. "You will save his life."
Santana looks down at the man. Her first thought is simply but one word. Impossible. For the man is clearly lying where he will soon die. His shirt has been shed, chest riddled with the bloody telltale marks of horse hooves. His breathing is ragged, short bursts of breaths exhaled from paling lips. Her eyes scan over his limbs, one arm will need to be amputated, the radius bone a shattered mess piercing through his skin. She cannot see the extent of the damage wrought to his legs but the pools of blood staining his slacks are enough for her to know it is substantial.
As substantial as the jacket slung over the edge of the table. The one with the markings of a Colonel.
They need him.
Santana turns back to the officer. "And if he dies despite my efforts?" she asks.
"You forfeited your freedom the moment you elected to stay. Either you both live, or you both die," the officer explains simply, smiling even. "Miss Fabray will assist you," he goes on to tell her, nodding toward a corner of the tent where a disheveled looking blonde nurse is working alone to bandage a man's head. "Anything you require, she will see to it you are equipped."
One nurse in a shoddy hospital. Santana can't help the sputter of sound that escapes her as she asks, "You can't expect me to—"
The officer steps forward, the smile wiped from his face as he tells her, "If you value your life at all you will save him." He fingers the collar of her coat, lip curled in a smirk as he asks, "You are a surgeon, are you not?"
Santana slaps his hand aside, glaring up at the officer before turning toward the sole nurse and ordering quickly, "I need him disrobed, give him a quarter dose of morphine if can be spared and get those limbs above his heart first. A mid range tourniquet next, metacarpal saw, at least two scalpels but I prefer three, an artery needle, strong thread, bail forceps and for the love of god all clean."
The nurse seems stunned by the command but recovers quickly, nodding as she sets about to collect everything. Santana then turns back toward the officer, pleased at seeing a similar stunned expression upon his thin face. And thus she cannot help herself when she asks him, "Do you think he'd prefer his sutures cross-stitched or straight?"
The officer and soldier are gone, leaving Santana alone with the nurse and the dying Colonel. She knows why they've left, and she does not blame them. This is not the ideal place to remain standing, let alone operate. At least one soldier surrenders to losing his stomach every quarter of the hour. Another soon follows before exhaustion takes them into sleep. They miss the buckets every time and the nurse must ignore her duties in order to remain Santana's aid through the procedure. Santana works quickly to save the Colonel's life, knowing her own is held with each breath he takes. A gun may not be pointed to her back but she knows one awaits her just outside the tent if she were to even think of fleeing.
She's trapped, forced to save the life of a man who could very well have ended Michael's or Burt's.
Perhaps Piedmont's step is one of the many laid against his chest.
She can't help but think if Brittany were here she could point to his horseshoe.
Santana forces thoughts of her aside, knowing if she is to make it from this tent alive she must focus.
She's no way to know the extent of the damage done to the Colonel by the horses, a light touch of her fingers to his abdomen provides a deep groan from his lips. He could be bleeding, organs ruptured and she's not the instruments here to assist him. (The nurse was only able to provide one scalpel and a bent saw for cutting, granting her a withering look from Santana not a few minutes prior). She does not have the skilled hands of Michael to ensure his heart still beats as she works. Fabray is a nuisance if ever there was one, staring at her with wide muddy eyes and expelling astonished gasps every time Santana finds a pocket of liquid in his chest in need of puncturing. It's as if she's never had the privilege to assist in an operation, a fact Santana is starting to believe very true when she asks of the nurse to fix the tourniquet to the man's arm.
Fabray's entire expression brightens and she's barely able to contain the smile wanting to break across her face as she hurries to carry out Santana's order.
"Where are your medics?" Santana asks her, taking the scalpel in her hand next. The edge is dull when she runs the pad of her thumb across it. Yet another setback. Did the South care so little for the wellbeing of their wounded soldiers?
The nurse seems surprised to be being asked a question, but answers quickly, her hands never faltering in their adjustments of the tourniquet. "Most went back with the men, to our camp a few miles East of here."
"You've injured here in need of help," Santana points out, making her first incision into his arm.
"They've already stopped by to attend these men," Fabray tells her, her expression hardening as she looks to the soldiers lying at her back. She mutters something beneath her breath that Santana does not catch, but she can deem from the look in the nurses' eyes that whatever she's spoken is not in favor of the medic staff. "Our doctor is no better," Fabray continues. "You heard what Lieutenant Miller said, drunk already. We wouldn't have had to fetch you otherwise."
Santana hates idle chatter. Fabray's first answer was sufficient enough. I'm quite aware of why I am here, she thinks to herself with a sneer. "Saw," she says, holding her hand out for the tool.
"I'm Quinn," the nurse tells her as she holds out the saw for Santana to take. The teeth aren't straight; the man's arm will be sure to look a right disaster once she's severed it from his elbow.
Santana says nothing in response, snatching the saw away and immediately setting to work digging the teeth of the tool into the Colonel's forearm.
"You know," Quinn says, sliding a bucket beneath the arm to catch the man's blood. "Typically when someone gives their name you are rewarded with the same in return."
Santana stops sawing, eyes set in a heated glare as she looks up to Quinn, "Typically," she echoes, mimicking the woman's airy tone, "when I am working I am rewarded with silence."
Quinn seems unaffected by her biting tone, quirking a brow as she hands Santana another clean cloth. "If you need a scalpel how am I to respond? Two blinks for a 'right away, Miss', or one for 'never in this life, Miss'?"
Santana grits her teeth, forcing the saw harder through the Colonel's muscle. "My name's Santana."
"You're an excellent doctor, Miss Santana," Quinn tells her, quick to anticipate the bone file Santana is soon to need. "That's all I wished to say."
Santana wishes that were indeed all Quinn wished to say. Even though she remains relatively quiet for the remainder of the amputation she does interject with questions, the nurse obviously curious about the actions Santana undertakes. But she's attentive; far better an aide than the nurses once under her charge. Again Santana feels her stomach twisting with grief, recalling the way one of her team was led away. She doesn't understand how Quinn can have volunteered to help these men. Not once has she been shown any ounce of compassion, let alone human decency, since she's been detained. Do they treat their own differently?
Michael would certainly think Quinn crazy if he were here, Santana thinks as she completes wrapping the Colonel's stub of an arm and sets about to stitch up the more cumbersome of lesions on his legs. His breathing has tempered, heart rate returned to normal. She's relaxed some in her work now that she knows he will survive the night. As for the days to come, well... she hopes she's well and away by then. But she wishes to finish quickly, wanting to return to Brittany's side. And poor Noah, he's probably anxiously awaiting her arrival.
Santana feels a heat at her back and must suppress the roll of her eyes when she realizes Quinn no longer stands opposite her.
Also that Quinn Fabray is hankering for a needle to be plunged through her eye. One Santana is more than willing to see find its mark. Especially if the other woman doesn't stop hovering about like a damned fly. Santana straightens from over the patient, eyes narrowed in distaste at the astonished blonde beside her.
"Have you finished already?" Quinn asks, peering over Santana's shoulder.
"If you don't give me space right now," Santana begins to say between tightly-clenched teeth. "He won't be the only one unconscious upon a shabby, poorly maintained operating table. Am I clear, idiota? ¿Quieres eso?"
"No lo quiero," Quinn says lightly, taking a step back with a smirk upon her lips. "My nanny was a Spaniard," she explains, handing Santana a spare cloth. But Santana does not take it, even when she knows it's exactly the item she now needs. Quinn smiles, forcing it into Santana's hand. "And just in case, I'm also fluent in French. S'il vous plaît, continuer."
Santana's eyes narrow further.
"Por favor, continue," Quinn tells her.
"Stop talking," Santana grumbles, turning back to the Colonel and wiping up the excess blood from the sutures on his leg.
Quinn maintains a respectful distance afterward, even going so far as to redress the Colonel by herself once Santana's completed her work. Santana says nothing in way of thanks, but is grateful for Quinn's assistance in that matter nevertheless. She'll never tell the Southern girl as much though, undeserving as she feels it'd be to give her but even a word of praise. A scarcely adequate perhaps, or a might overbearing could be in order. Entirely overbearing, really, she corrects herself. As Quinn carries out her task Santana finds herself looking around at the men inside the tent. Some are in need of fresh bandages, others a good dose of opium to sleep undisturbed through the night. Then there are others, ones like the man slumped against a crate in the corner, his forehead dotted with a sheen of what she knows to be cold sweat. Feverish, possibly suffering from an infection left untreated.
Brittany could very well resemble him soon if she's left in the same state. Santana makes her way to his side, immediately crouching to his level. She touches a few of her fingers to his cheek, unsurprised by the heat pouring from his body.
The man's eyes open lazily at her touch, a great wheeze of a breath drawn deep into his lungs.
"What were you told ails you?" she asks, searching his body for the telltale bandages she assumes to be wrapped haphazardly around an infected and poorly-stitched wound. She spots it, a small darkened area against his coat near his hip. It smells of puss, even from a distance. Infected indeed. "A bullet wound?"
The man nods slowly.
He was probably told the discharge was healthy, a completely common misconception Santana was pleased to see forgotten in her camp. She lifts up the man's coat and shirt, expecting a small hole and bit of a stench. An easy fix, simple cleaning and fresh bandages would see to it that the infection not thrive.
But what she finds is stilling. His entire side has erupted in small boils and the once small bullet wound is engorged. The stiches have broken, septicemia well set in.
She lowers his shirt and coat.
She cannot treat this, but she can make him comfortable.
Santana turns, about to call for Quinn only to find the woman already standing a few paces behind, watching her with interest, her features softened. Quinn is stunned for she has never met a doctor quite like Santana. Hell, she's never met a woman who held that title in all her life. And to be so skilled at such an age… Quinn can't imagine what Santana's life must have been before the war. Had she apprenticed with a great surgeon? Gone to the finest of medical schools?
Quinn is envious really, of whatever life it was Santana left in order to volunteer in this gruesome war. She must also be right stupid to give it up, she thinks. It must have been a life of opportunity and endless possibilities surrounded by people of like mind and soul. Not a life contrived since her birth and filled with the worst of human kind. Sensibilities instilled, opinions warped, everything planned to the most minute of details and executed with all the charms of a tired dance.
Santana is the very picture of the freedom Quinn has craved and still craves even now. Of why one morning after her breakfast of portioned eggs, bacon and warm biscuits, with her mother's newest potential suitor sitting in the parlor awaiting her arrival, that Quinn found herself walking straight out the front door and down to the local enlistment bureau where she signed her life away with a quick stroke of a borrowed pen.
She never looked back.
"Shit for eyes, if you could? Morphine?" Santana asks, pointing toward the small array of pill bottles on the box resting beside the operating table. She doesn't know where Quinn's mind has just disappeared. The Nurses' eyes are clouded with an expression Santana cannot place, unfocused and yet the murky color for once is alarmingly bright, even in the dim light of the oil lamps. Quinn is quick to spring into motion, not even bothered by the insult as she brings the bottle over. Her thoughts are still spinning in her head, unable to settle, as she watches the soldier manage to swallow a pill, coughing all the while without water to help it down his throat. She apologizes for the lack of the liquid.
"We used it all on the Colonel," she explains softly.
Santana says nothing of the fate of the man, merely stands to her feet, knowing the officer and soldier are to return soon to collect her. She stares down at the bottle in her hands, wondering if she should empty it in her pocket to administer to her own men. For Brittany especially.
But Quinn takes it gently from her before she can even move, placing it back alongside the others. Beside the medicine rests a small pile of blankets and without hesitation Quinn takes a few and returns back to Santana. "Here," she says, holding out the bundle for the doctor. "Perhaps you can stay with me for the night. It's not much I know and certainly not what you must be used to, but I know they have you all down by the river and—"
"Stop, stop," Santana says, holding up a hand in hopes of keeping Quinn from speaking further. "I'm not staying."
"Would you rather freeze tonight?" Quinn counters, quirking a brow.
"Yes," Santana answers fiercely. "I'd rather freeze beside my friends than be warm beside those causing them such pain."
Quinn sighs and holds the bundle of blankets out further. "Take them then. For you and your friends."
"Why are you being so kind to me?" Santana asks, wary of accepting them.
"It's the least I can do," Quinn tells her. "Circumstances may have forced us to be enemies but I cannot stand aside as a nurse and allow good people to suffer."
Santana rolls her eyes. "What makes you think I'm so good?"
"You could have left that man to his pains," Quinn whispers. "But you helped."
"There is a gun pointed at my back," Santana reminds her. "Or did you forget why I was brought here?"
Quinn throws the bundle to Santana's chest. "Just take the blankets," she says, resigned as she turns to begin cleaning the rest of the operating space. From over her shoulder she tells Santana, "If you need anything else just let me know. Unless asking for help is somehow also a major grievance upon your character."
"I'm grateful for the blankets but anything more and your men will be sure to notice. I'm already upon thin ice," Santana hisses, striding forward and stopping Quinn with a quick pull of arm. "Or is that your intent? Give the yank some supplies and have her killed for thieving. What a laugh you'll have."
Quinn says nothing for a moment, staring at Santana with curious eyes. "You don't think very much of me, do you?"
"Why should I have any reason to think you anything aside from the same as your fellow greyback?"
"Because, perhaps like you, some of us did not ever wish to find ourselves where we currently are," Quinn tells her honestly and Santana is taken aback by her reply.
"You didn't… volunteer?"
"I did," Quinn confesses, tossing a soiled cloth to the bucket with the Colonel's amputated arm. "Regrettably."
Santana doesn't know whether to trust her… but she is reminded of Brittany and knows she cannot hesitate to ask. "There is…" Santana begins to say, growing nervous. "There is one thing I need. And if you could help I—"
Quinn smiles softly, "Of course, simply name it."
"A pocket kit, if you have one," Santana says quietly. "Or a needle and some spare suture thread. My—"
Quinn nods in understanding. "I didn't want to mention it because I'm sure you're aware but you have suffered something rather terrible looking in this area," she says, motioning toward her own left ear.
"It's not for me," Santana tells her. "My friend is hurt. I was never able to finish treating him and—"
Quinn immediately turns to the tools laid out for the operation. She takes the spool of suture thread and pierces a clean needle through the roll. "Here," she stuffs it discreetly into the bundle of blankets in Santana's arms. "Don't let them see it," she whispers.
Santana nods, closing her arms tight around the bundle and hugging it closer to her chest. "Thank you, Quinn, thank you."
"No somos monstrous. Not all of us," Quinn tells her just before the officer and soldier finally reenter the tent.
They let her keep the blankets, a gift of sorts, they say as they escort her back to the internment enclosure. Santana never loosens her hold upon the bundle, knowing how precious the spool of thread and needle she carries is. If it were to slip free and the men could see what Quinn's provided her…
She stops herself from imaging such a fate.
Almost there, she thinks instead.
The men leave her once they've reached the line of guards and Santana must will herself not to run to Brittany's side as she wishes. She knows the officer and soldier are watching her, just waiting for her to finally give them reason to bury a bullet deep into her skull. Noah rises to his feet as she approaches, eyes blurred with tears and nose red. She doesn't stop walking until his arms warp around her and an overwhelming feeling of safety finally has her legs giving out beneath her. He lowers them to the ground, careful not to let her fall. And then he holds her, simply waiting as he watches the two men down by the river's edge.
He can feel Santana shaking against him, her words muffled by his coat, "Have they gone?"
"Not yet," he whispers, rubbing her back.
It takes them a few moments more, but eventually they retreat.
"Okay," Noah says quietly, pulling away once they are well from sight.
Santana unfolds the blankets in her lap, hands shaking as she unfurls from within the needle and thread.
"How did you?" he asks, astonished.
"Just help me with her arm," she tells him instead, quickly setting about preparing the needle with a fair amount of suture thread.
Noah gently arranges Brittany's arm, peeling away the layer of bandage until the wound meets his eyes. He swallows thickly as he stares down at the mess of blood and skin. He can see where Santana had started to mend the injury, the rest though is still torn and encrusted with dried blood. He brushes aside what he can, mindful not to touch directly over the deep cut. Santana would slap him blind if he so much as inadvertently spread infection, even if he doesn't quite know how he might do so. She's shouted at him enough to never pick at his scabs for him to know not to even touch Brittany's wound now.
"Thank you," she whispers as she lays a hand over his own. He gives her a smile and moves away to give her the space to work. And even with the dark of night making it hard to properly see Santana still takes to suturing Brittany's arm with keen attentiveness. More so than Noah thinks she's ever showed to any other patient.
When she finishes with Brittany's arm, rewrapping it to ensure the bloody bits of the bandage don't rest against the fresh sutures, Santana presses a kiss to her temple.
"Watch her for me?" she asks Noah, not waiting for a response before she moves down into the crowd of the men and attends to one in dire need of the same attention.
Noah stays by Brittany's side as Santana moves from soldier to soldier, doing what she can with the little she's been provided. Three she's able to mend, the forth too far gone for even sutures to help. She works quickly, mindful of the guards watching her every move. They say nothing though, not one stepping forward to stop her.
So it seems Quinn was right after all, she thinks as she finishes up the last of the thread on a laceration across a cavalry soldier's neck. They aren't all monsters.
"If she could see you right now," Noah says once she returns. "She'd be so proud."
Santana gives him a small smile as she settles down beside Brittany, pulling a blanket snuggly around them both. Noah tosses the other over them all, huddling close to Brittany's back. He closes his eyes to sleep, but Santana's voice, soft as it carries into the night, keeps him from dreams.
"Hi Britt," Santana breathes out as she settles into place curled in front of the sleeping woman. She's been turned to her side, the injured arm resting just between them. Santana runs her hand over Brittany's wrist before linking a few of her fingers with Brittany's own. She lets out a long breath, one filled with relief to finally be by her side yet fear for what is now to come. "I know it's pointless, saying anything to you when you're… like this, but I miss talking to you."
Brittany doesn't stir, not even as Santana unlinks their fingers and traces a path softly down Brittany's cheek instead. She's still so cool to the touch, her skin so utterly pale. Santana scoots closer and doesn't stop until her knees brush against Brittany's and she can count the freckles sprinkled across the couriers nose.
"No," Santana recalls the last words she said to her, brow scrunching as she realizes, "I miss talking with you. I just… I just miss you. And Noah's probably hearing all of this but you know what? I don't care. I don't care if he knows how I feel for you because I'm so afraid I'm losing you and I can't let another second pass in silence if this is to be our last.
"I don't want it to be," Santana says thickly, hoping for those blue eyes to open even but a sliver. Yet they remained closed, Brittany's breaths still so slow. Santana slides her hand behind Brittany's neck, pulling her just the fraction of space closer until their foreheads meet and Santana can feel those slow exhales upon her lips. "I made you a promise that we'd be home soon and I'm so sorry we're not there yet but we will be, Britt," she tells her adamantly, voice verging upon breaking. "You must be by my side when we get there because I can't meet your family alone. I won't know what to say...
"I bet you and Emily have the same smile and laugh," Santana thinks aloud, smiling through her silent tears. "And your Pa, I imagine his eyes as blue as yours and just as patient and kind. You've told me so much of them and the farm I feel like I've already been there. I know the color the wallpaper, where the lake lies and how the kitchen table is old and one leg doesn't reach all the way to the floor. I want to wake up to chickens crowing or what have you, do they even do that?" she asks, confused for moment.
She doesn't know if it's merely her mind playing a trick upon her or if it's truly real, but there's a hint of color returning to Brittany's face. The smallest of hopes plants itself in Santana's heart at the appearance. "Even if all we ever eat is cornmeal for breakfast I know you'll be there and that's all that matters. Hell, I want to help you care for Lord Tubbington, Apple, Clarence, King Benjamin, Daisy, Louie and Pip. Do you know how hard it was to remember them all? But I did, because I want to know them. They're your home Britt, just as your mine," she whispers, tracing small circles at the back of Brittany's neck. "And I can't lose that. I can't. I can't lose you, not when I've just found you."
Noah remains absolutely still, simply listening for any response from the woman beside him. He can feel Brittany's breaths, deep as her back presses against his own. And then hears the small sob that chokes it way out from Santana's throat. Her hope gone with it.
"Please, Brittany," Santana whispers, pleads with all her heart. There's a slight movement near her feet, Brittany's leg shifting against the ground. Santana's gaze locks upon Brittany's face, eyes darting between closed ones, waiting for them to open.
"San…" Brittany murmurs, eyes still closed, arm throbbing with pain. "I'm not dying…"
Santana closes the gap separating them, kissing Brittany firmly. Relishing in the warmth of her lips pressed against her own. "No," she whispers as she kisses her again, unable to keep the smile from her lips. "No you're not."
"I'm just tired is all," Brittany breathes out, eyes finally opening lazily. Her vision is unfocused though, unable to even make out the blurred features of Santana's face. And the pain in her arm, how it burns. She heard though; everything so absolutely clear. She can feel her lips pulling into a smile despite the stinging, eyes growing heavy once more. "But what you said…" she tells her, unwilling to succumb to sleep without letting Santana know. "It was very sweet…. you're my home too…"
Santana kisses her again, longer this time. "I love you," she whispers against her lips.
Brittany nudges her nose beside Santana's, whispering back, "I love you too."
"I love you both," they can hear Noah saying.
"Quit it, Noah," Santana hisses over Brittany's shoulder. When she turns back down to her though sleep has finally overtaken Brittany. But she's all right, Santana reminds herself. They'll be all right.