Chapter 19
Chosen Paths
They quickly become the joke amongst the Southern soldiers; the three Yanks who deigned to stay. Absolutely cracked, is what many of the men think as the three are led through camp toward the caravan headed for the medical outpost. Some of them keep their thoughts to themselves, be it from some semblance of respect or forced etiquette, but others are more than happy to approach candid in their opinions. Heckles are shouted and spat with drawls that grate upon Noah and Santana's ears. Slurs made all the worse by coarse speech. They've lost count of the Southern men who spit at their feet and the ones who have shoved them as they pass.
No one cared to look twice at Santana as she was led through the camp in the dark of night. So she doesn't quite understand why they suddenly feel the need to demean her and Noah now. These men have no liquor in their bellies to surge such bold disdain forward. This is sheer antagonism. Unfiltered hate.
Noah holds tighter to Brittany whenever they draw too near, the snarl upon his lips a caution against crossing his path. By his side Santana keeps close to where Brittany's head rests against his shoulder, her gaze set in a threat to any who deem to try and spit upon the unconscious woman.
Their words she cannot stop, but their malicious actions she is more than ready to rebuff.
Let them try, she thinks, digging her nails deep into the flesh of her palms. She is ready for them, just waiting for one reckless enough to challenge her.
Stanley lets out a snort ahead and Santana's attention snaps toward him. She just catches a glimpse of his eyes rolling as he turns forward once more. Of course he finds her fury droll, she thinks. It is because of him that they now walk through this camp at such a sluggish pace, easy targets for ridicule and scorn. His usual clip pace is forgotten in favor of an unhurried gait as he leads them further into the throngs of men carrying out their orders of disbandment. He doesn't often turn to check upon his captives save for the occasional look spared over his shoulder to ensure the insolence of his fellow soldier has been received.
Santana wishes to smack the smug grin from his face whenever he does so.
Another heckle is hollered and the hairs instantly rise along the back of her neck. "Do you yield as easily to a bed as your men do upon a field?"
"I've a dick willin' to volunteer!" a man quickly supplies and laughter erupts down the lane in response.
Even Stanley chuckles along with the soldiers.
Santana fears the welcome they will receive at the medical outpost if this is the sendoff they're being shown.
And what more, what this will mean for Brittany.
She ignores the subsequent hollers, too lost in thoughts of the imagined atrocities they are soon to face. Questions spin in her mind, anxieties growing stronger with every ensuing fear. How deep in the South must they travel? Will they be forced to labor? Puck to build alongside the dark-skinned? She to clean waste in a deplorable hospital? Will they even be fed? Will Brittany be given help? Will she be found as a woman?
Santana can no longer hear the jeers of the Southern men; so far removed they are from her mind. Her steps are mechanical, a stark contrast to the harsh erratic pounds her heart renders against her ribs. She cannot let these men discover Brittany. No one. She must always be on her guard, never one moment spent away from Brittany's company.
And I cannot control any of it, she laments, pained as she looks upon Brittany's face.
For the first time since hearing of the parole camp she regrets her choice to stay behind.
Perhaps they could have survived…
She need only look at Brittany's pale cheeks to affirm otherwise.
This is the only choice.
They slowly meander through the rest of the camp toward a small company of men amassing supplies beside a caravan. None of the carts bear upon their sides the insignia she has grown accustomed to on the medical carts in Northern camps. But the field ambulances ahead, she more than recognizes. At least a dozen are positioned in an even line, cavalry boys busy hitching horses to their traces. Even from afar Santana can see the many injured packed inside, far more occupying a single wagon than ever intended. She won't be surprised if the journey to the outpost is riddled with stops for broken axels and exhausted horses.
Santana hopes Brittany sleeps through most of the trip. Having to witness more horses being put to death would only make her troubles all the worse.
Stanley brings them to a stop just before they reach the ambulance line, eyes scanning the men carrying out their orders for departure. Noah gives Santana's shoulder a soft nudge and nods in question toward Stanley's back. Santana shrugs; she's no idea whom he searches for let alone where he is to take them next. Her stomach is a twisted mess of worries and her only prayer is that her fears are not reflected upon her face.
It would not do well for Stanley to see just how terrified she is in this moment.
She keeps her head bowed and gaze focused upon her scuffed boots in precaution.
After a moment Stanley turns, satisfied by what he's found. He barely registers Santana's purposeful avoidance, his sole attention turned to Noah. "You there," he says, fixing Noah with an indifferent stare. Noah instinctively shifts Brittany in his arms, holding her closer. Stanley rolls his eyes at the action and motions for Noah to lower her. "Put that man down here and get to helpin' our wounded into the wagons."
"I won't be—" Noah begins to protest, only to have Stanley continue speaking above him.
"Normans here will take you to the field hospital and show you how to carry 'em out," he says, pointing over toward one of the medic staff whom gives a nod in response.
Noah doesn't move.
Santana can see a twitch of annoyance crease Stanley's eyes. "I don't like repeatin' myself none."
"I'm not a slave," Noah growls.
An eyebrow quirks high on Stanley's forehead.
"Noah," Santana warns him in a whisper. "Just do as he says."
"As far as you're concerned, mudsill, I am your keeper," Stanley tells him, voice low. He runs a hand through his slicked-back hair as he approaches, demeanor reserved and commanding as he comes to a stop just a foot away from Noah. He stands a good head taller than Noah, a fact Noah is more than bothered about if the scowl rooted upon his lips is any indication. Stanley clicks his tongue. "But I'm a fair man, I'll give you your choice. Either heed my order or I'll send you and your useless friend here right back into that warm reception my fellow soldiers were so kind to give ya," he grins, a wide toothy smile that causes Noah to bristle and curl Brittany further against his chest.
Santana grabs Noah's nearest arm; surprised by the slight quiver she can feel in his muscles. Be if from exertion or fury she knows not. Noah won't look to her, nor has he taken his eyes from Stanley's coat lapels. Wool that once kept the cold from a Northern man's bones now placed on the back of the underserving. His stare is hard, the line of his jaw suddenly ever-so-sharp.
"Please," she begs softly. Please think of Brittany.
Stanley smirks down at her as he leans toward Noah to say, "And given your outstanding record of making the right choices this morn, I'm confident you'll choose right again."
Noah's eyes dart up to Stanley's, a look exchanged that Santana misses in the height disparity. But Stanley's grin grows victorious as he takes a couple steps back and folds his arms across his chest.
Ever so carefully, Noah sets Brittany down along the ground.
Stanley grins, triumphant. "Perhaps you yanks aren't so dumb after all."
Noah makes to join Normans, but not before ensuring he gives Stanley's shoulder a good knock with his own as he passes.
The hit barely causes the taller man to sway.
"He's a stubborn lad, isn't he?" Stanley muses as Noah reluctantly follows Normans back toward the field hospital. Santana crouches down beside Brittany, a hand instinctively laid upon her shoulder.
"And you're a bastard," Santana remarks.
"I am a bastard. I won't fault you that claim none," Stanley chuckles as he climbs a top a pile of crates waiting to be packed. He nods down toward Brittany. "If you want to get him help than see to it these supplies get on this here cart."
Santana's brow furrows. Has he really just offered… aid? "Help?" she repeats, dumfounded.
"Were you not payin' any attention when I mentioned how I feel about repeatin' myself?" Stanley counters, though seems amused nonetheless. He gives a shake of his head and leans back against the crates, kicking his feet up to rest against the ones stacked to his front. "I reckon Miss Quinn will find you soon enough and put up her usual fuss. Just leave him there, she's like a gnat to rawhide that girl is, especially when it comes to hurtin' boys."
Santana can't quite believe this is the same man who just walked them through such misery. If Quinn is to come, and in that vein offer help openly, then Santana is to be sure Quinn can easily find them. She slips her arms beneath Brittany's shoulders, ready to haul her up and position her more comfortably propped against the crates. She manages to lift her torso a few inches from the ground when Stanley gives a few disproving clicks of his tongue.
"Did I say to move your feller?" He asks her.
Santana does not let go of Brittany. "I'm not going to leave him out here to be trampled upon!"
"Why you think I'm sittin' up here then?" Stanley rebukes, giving a solid knock to the crate he sits a top.
Santana lets out a scoff. "I don't typically question the egotism of the lofty-minded."
A few horses are led by, their breadth far too close for Santana's taste. She glares up at Stanley, surely he must see the truth to her words now. Bastard or not he still retains sight.
Stanley relents with a grunt, waving for her to continue. "Move him and then get to work, Pierce," he mutters, crossing his arms across his chest as he leans back against the topmost crate. "And no tryin' anything. I'll be sitting right here watching you."
Without further word Santana quickly arranges Brittany beside the crates, ensuring her surgeon's coat is snuggly wrapped around the courier's shoulders. She shivers against a chill wind rolling through the trees, momentarily regretting gifting their blankets to the men whom helped her beside the river in Hartsville. They need it more, she reminds herself as she buttons up the coat further along Brittany's chest. Her hand instinctively moves to brush some hair from back over Brittany's forehead but she catches herself before she's able, knowing Stanley's eyes are fixed upon her every move. She looks up toward him, her suspicions confirmed as he stares down at her keenly. He raises his thick brows slowly, the unspoken comment more than received.
But he voices it aloud anyway, "I'm not any closer to the ground here, lass."
Keeping her eyes upon him Santana grabs one of the crates with far more force than need be. She's both surprised and pleased to find it nowhere near as heavy as she anticipated. In fact she'd gather it is entirely empty. But again, the box bears no mark to signify what it once must have held. Decent meals perhaps, Santana thinks to herself as she loads it into the high walled cart. She hopes the rest will fare much the same.
A steady stream of soldiers continue to deposit crates near the side of the cart as Santana works, her forehead quick to accumulate with sweat even given the cold lingering in the air. Brittany remains sleeping propped up against a few and Santana checks upon her every second or third round about she makes. Stanley keeps watch over them from his perch, his rifle knocking against the side every so often whenever he deigns to give it a kick in boredom. He whistles a tune; heedful to increase his volume to reflect the deepening sneer upon Santana's lips.
It is all good fun, he thinks, tormenting the mouthy doctor of the North. A woman needed to know her place. Be reminded of just whom it is the law holds above her. Quite literally, he muses, rapping his fingers in a steady rhythm against a wooden crate top.
Santana hopes he accidently shoots his hand off.
A loud crash sounds from a few yards off, giving her a reprieve when Stanley instantly jumps down from atop the boxes. Santana cannot see where he runs off toward but can more than hear his voice carry back to her.
"Miss Fabray! Are you all right?" he calls, a twinge of concern laced into his tone that causes Santana's eyes to involuntarily roll. Of course he'd rush to her side. The man-pup cannot help himself from the beck and call of… It is only then the name registers in her head.
Quinn has found us.
Santana leans out past the stack of crates in hopes of simply spotting the woman but instead finds the surprised eyes of Quinn Fabray quickly fixated upon her own.
They remain locked in a stare for a second more until the surprised expression falls from Quinn's face. In an instant those same wide muddy eyes have hardened and Quinn's once soft brow dips impossibly low. She pushes roughly by Stanley, leaving the confused man in her wake as she makes her way to Santana. Without so much as a word she grabs Santana by the upper arm and drags her behind the cart and out of earshot.
"Santana!" Quinn hisses, letting her go with a shove. "Why are you here? I gave you everything you could need!"
"It's not enough, you know it's not," Santana tells her, mindful to keep her voice lowered.
"Miss Quinn, you cannot—" Stanley rounds the cart only to halt his tongue at the withering glare Quinn has concentrated upon him.
"A moment, Stanley," Quinn grits out through clenched teeth. "Please."
Stanley relents with grunt, retreating back toward the crate stack.
Quinn whips back toward Santana, incensed as she asks, "And you think we have something better here?"
"Not here," Santana repeats, growling as she rolls her eyes. "South, at the medical outpost. You mentioned there was a good hospital, they must be one in the same."
"No, no, no! You should have gone North!" Quinn insists, gesturing wildly back toward the internment field. "They don't treat the Northern soldiers at our hospital, they leave you to the camp to die."
Santana blinks, face paling. "W-what?"
"There's a camp, god you can't even call it a camp," Quinn groans, running her hands through her mussed hair. She looks as though she hasn't slept all night, eyes unsteady as they lock once more with Santana's. "It was a mill once but now it's used to hold the wounded Northern captives. You'll be lucky if one of those soldiers even gives you a meal let alone allows you to see a medic. They're entirely unsympathetic."
"And we're being sent there?" Santana asks as she reaches forward and grabs Quinn by the arms to hold the agitated woman still. "Why did they not tell us this? Why didn't you?"
Quinn sighs. "No one likes hearing how a wounded horse isn't worth more than the bullet to be buried in its head."
"We're to be shot?" Santana cries out but quickly pulls her lips between her teeth to keep any more shouts from spilling out her mouth. It doesn't stop her eyes from filling with the rage her words cannot convey.
"No!" Quinn whispers hotly. "No, it's just a saying!"
"I hate Southern ways!" Santana shouts at her as quietly as she's able. "Why can't you just come out right and tell me we're being lead to slaughter! Talking in riddles makes it all the worse!"
"I never said you were going to be shot!" Quinn exclaims in much the same tone.
"You called me a wounded horse not worth more than the bullet they will soon put in my head!" Santana tells her, breathing ever so fitful as she hisses straight into Quinn's face. "WHAT ELSE AM I TO INFER FROM THAT?"
"It was a metaphor!" Quinn groans, pushing Santana away sharply. Santana's back hits the cart, jostling the small amount of crates she's positioned inside. Quinn feels need to apologize but instead snarls out, "I was trying to make it sound better!"
Santana pushes away from cart, gritting her teeth against the flash of pain erupting in her head. "You are doing a piss poor job of it!" she tells Quinn, advancing toward her once more. "Just tell me what is going to happen to us!"
"You're going to the mill camp," Quinn tells her evenly, keeping Santana at arms length. "It will be horrid but you will not be shot."
Santana steps back, letting out a loud and exasperated huff. "Was that truly so difficult?"
Quinn grows uneasy. "Someone may try to… force himself on you."
"Oh, wonderful," Santana says throwing her hands into the air as she makes a dramatic point of scowling furiously up at Quinn Fabray. "I love camps with prospects of rape. They are obviously my preferred, right next to ones where I am confused for a wounded horse and shot."
"You wanted the truth, did you not?"
"You need to stop talking before I find a way ensure you never do again," Santana says, hating the way her voice cracks and betrays just how truly terrified she is. Her body gives into the fear coursing quickly through her veins and she slumps against the cart, eyes snapping shut to trap the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. "Fuck, Quinn."
"I'm sorry, Santana," Quinn says softly, hesitant as she places a hand over Santana's shoulder. When Santana doesn't brush her hand aside she ventures on. "Look, for what it's worth until we reach the camp I'll be by your side and provide whatever aid I'm able."
Santana is grateful for the offer, but it doesn't help knowing what's soon to come. Her stare feels dead to Quinn, chilling her even despite the heat flushed in her cheeks. "You are the last person I wish to spend my final few days of relative freedom with."
Quinn knows the spite is spoken from a place of anguish. She doesn't blame Santana for the harsh words. She rather expected them to be more biting if she's honest about the matter. Yet there is one matter Quinn knows Santana is more than willing to bend upon. "Your friend, the one with the infected arm. You stayed for him, didn't you?" Quinn asks quietly.
Tears fall unapologetic down Santana's cheek as her chin dips and she turns her head from Quinn's searching eyes. "Yes…"
"I think I can arrange for him to ride in one of the wagons with me, until we get to the camp that is," Quinn says, hoping that offer will give Santana even the briefest of reprieves.
But Santana is shaking her head, looking as if that very offer has driven a knife into her chest. "No! It-it's all right, Noah will carry him."
Quinn hates to say it, but feels she must. "You'll want him at his strongest when you arrive at the camp."
The warning is left unsaid but Santana feels it piercing deep into her gut regardless.
She holds Quinn's gaze for a moment before giving a nod, imploring, "If I were allowed to walk beside the cart—"
"Consider it done," Quinn tells her, wincing as she realizes. "You may be shackled but—"
"I don't care," Santana tells her, steadfast. "Drape me in chains for all it's worth so long as I can see him."
Quinn has seldom seen such loyalty, let alone devotion, in one mere soul. Hell, she thinks, she's never seen even a lick of compassion displayed at all until she was sent to this god-awful war and introduced to Stanley. He was the first man to ever greet her with a genuine smile, bashful as it was as he pointed off toward where the nurses were to gather for orientation. But there is a distinctive difference between the kindness imparted to a stranger from a place of good intentions and the sacrifice of self Santana has just committed to without so much as a blink of her eyes. All for one man.
Quinn thinks her mad and yet at once is envious of such fidelity. "You must really care for him," is all she can think to say in response.
"I do," Santana replies simply. "I care for all my friends."
"But him especially," Quinn corrects, watching Santana's expression closely.
Santana nods, unashamed. "Yes, him especially."
That's all the answer Quinn needs. With a squeeze of Santana's shoulder she releases the woman and gives her a smile. "I'll see if I can get you both in the wagon."
"Quinn, if this jeopardizes—"
"Jeopardizes what? My outstanding ranks here at the bottom?" She says with a bitter chuckle. Her expression turns gentle once more as she smiles knowingly over at Santana. "And was that also a hint of concern I sensed there?"
Santana lets out a tired breath. "You're helping me, again, when you've no reason to."
"Well, I am still hoping you'll teach me what you can," Quinn reminds her.
Santana's response is immediate. "Until my feet enter that hellmouth consider yourself apprenticed."
There is no space for Brittany in the medical wagons, a fact that incenses Quinn more than it does Santana. Given Noah's task and the already overcrowded wagons she knew it was inevitable. Noah will have to carry her and she only hopes he's in far better condition than she feels at the present moment. Santana is exhausted from hauling crates into the cart all morning and could barely stand upon her feet once the last was slid into place and the gate latched. Her arms tingle even now as she leans slumped beside Brittany against the back wheel.
She can see Stanley from through the small slit in her heavy eyelids. He stands amongst a few of his fellow soldiers, chatting amiably. It's strange watching his moustache curl up into a sincere smile. He reminds her a lot of Scott Cooper, an ass if ever there was one. They'd be fast friends, she thinks, bastards it seemed were always in good company with one another. Breeding ideals of hate and barely treading the waters of their own foolishness. He laughs with his comrades, his own chuckles far more reserved than the loud barks of his friends. It's hard for her to imagine Stanley anything aside from the monster she's come to regard him as, let alone a friend to another person.
Than again, she reminds herself, those men are no more human than the wooden wheel at her back.
Brittany shifts beside her, a warm cheek coming to rest against Santana's shoulder. Whatever bitter thoughts once coursed through Santana's mind disband at the movement. Instead she finds herself closing her eyes as she gently rests her own cheek against Brittany's head. She breathes in deeply, calm settling inside her as the faint smell of grass meets her senses. Even after all they've endured it seems that one facet of Brittany's scent will always linger. She just wishes to be lost in it, to forget where they currently rest and simply pull Brittany into her arms and breathe.
"Not one damned spot in thirteen wagons," Quinn seethes as she comes to stand before them. Santana doesn't move but manages to crack one eye open. Quinn and her impeccable timing, she bemoans. "And have you any idea how many men they've laid to rest in the last one? Take a guess. It's unbelievable."
"I don't kn—" Santana begins to say only for Quinn to continue ranting on.
"Sixteen! Sixteen men in a wagon built for at most seven!" she exclaims in a hushed irate whisper. She's not once looked down toward Santana nor Brittany as she carries on, her sole focus, to Santana anyway, seems upon glaring more wagons into existence by sheer force of will. "And do you know when Major Eckhart put in the order for more wagons?" Santana keeps quiet for she knows it's useless to even suggest a vowel. "August! He put in an order for them in August! That was ages ago and yet we've not seen one! Not a damned one, Santana! Why are you not outraged?" she demands when she finally spares a glance down toward the woman and finds Santana staring up at her with utmost disinterest.
Santana doesn't move, too comfortable against Brittany and so very tired. "Just throw us in with the crates," she mutters.
"That's actually… not a terrible idea," Quinn says, thoughtful as she stands to her toes to peak in over the wall of the cart. "At the very least we can fit him inside."
"His name is Bret," Santana supplies lazily.
Quinn grins, holding down a hand for Santana to take. "Help me to move Bret inside?"
Reluctantly Santana accepts Quinn's offer and finds herself being hauled up to her feet. Santana also doesn't realize what she's agreed to until Quinn begins to bend down to retrieve Brittany. With a startling burst of energy Santana snaps forward, yanking Quinn back up to her full height.
Quinn stares at her for a moment, quizzical before announcing, "You know, in order to get him in the cart it may involve us needing to touch him. Just a thought."
"I'll do it," Santana tells her as she dives down to the ground.
"Are you afraid I'll steal him away? Is that it?" Quinn asks, staring down at Santana incredulously. "He's comatose."
"The situation is delicate!" Santana hisses up at her as she slides her arms behind Brittany's back and beneath her knees. "Medically speaking," she adds as an afterthought when Quinn purses her lips and gives her that 'you must be mad' stare once more. When Quinn continues staring Santana lets out a groan. "Just open the damned gate."
Quinn still doesn't believe Santana's reasoning but if the woman thinks she can lift a full grown man from the ground all by her lonesome then she doesn't intend to stop her. If anything she may even garner a few amused minutes watching Santana struggle before the proud woman, inevitably, consents her defeat and begs for assistance. So it is much to Quinn's utter surprise that Santana does manage, though quite shakily, to lift Bret into her arms and stand upright. Santana looks about ready to collapse and so Quinn quickly scrambles to push aside crates in the cart and make enough space for Bret to lie. It won't be a comfortable ride, but given the alternative inside the ambulance wagons it will do quite well.
Santana braces her back against the cart side, wondering how easily Noah makes carrying Brittany seem when all her arms wish to do is give out and let Brittany fall to the ground. She keeps her knees bent, breathing as even as she's able to with her muscles crying out in pain and her teeth feeling as if they will shatter from the force of her bite. Brittany remains slack in her hold and it takes all in Santana's power not to crumble to the ground with her still held in her arms.
"Okay!" Quinn says once she's finished. Santana takes a deep breath and pushes off the cart side, quickly moving into place beside Quinn to slide Brittany into the back of the cart. Quinn helps to swing Brittany's legs inside as Santana collapses against the back edge and Brittany's body rolls into the small space Quinn was able to arrange.
Quinn picks Santana, lightheaded now after such exertion, back up to her feet. Brittany swims in her vision, though even in the disorientation Santana can still see just how cramped the space is that Quinn had made. It's barely big enough for a child, she thinks bitterly. Brittany will have to lay curled in a tight ball or sit upright with her legs bent impossibly close to her chest.
And she so does detest the way Quinn has wrapped an arm behind her back in attempt to keep her from swaying on her feet. Santana pushes her away, reaching into the cart to afford Brittany more room.
But she stumbles forward into the edge instead, misjudging the distance. Quinn catches the crate that almost topples down on top of Brittany but is unable to stop Brittany from being jostled into a stack just beside her head.
"Stop making it worse Quinn!" Santana admonishes blindly as she leans into the cart to see how Brittany has fared the hit.
"Of course," Quinn replies dryly, still holding the crate. "Because I didn't just save your husband from further injury."
"Santana…" Brittany breathes out as her forehead knots with pain. Her voice is faint, and Santana stills for it is also so very much not Bret.
Quinn knows the sound of a woman's voice when she hears one. Her eyes dart up to Santana's, her question more than answered by the wide brown-eyed stare she meets.
"You mustn't tell anyone," Santana pleads, panicked.
There is so much Quinn wishes to ask, yet the absolute terror in Santana's eyes at even the prospect of her very next word causes Quinn to hold back. So Bret is a woman, what of it? she thinks. She's met a few women feigning to be men in Southern camps. Granted it's only after they've suffered an injury and begged of a nurse's hand rather than a doctor's. But they exist; she's not ignorant to them. Mind you she finds them all mad and in desperate need of cerebral evaluation but she's not a judgmental woman. If they wished to fight and die alongside the men then that is their prerogative. Just as she ran to escape her droll life they fight to… well, she's not quite sure why any woman would chose to take up arms over taking up a thermometer but she reckons she can ask Bret that whenever she wakes.
Santana need not look so petrified. "Of course I'll keep this to myself," Quinn tells her smartly. "I'm not an idiot."
"I know, I just—" Santana begins to say.
"What's her name?" Quinn interjects, expression utterly blank.
Santana doesn't think she should reply, but Quinn's eyes are imploring, almost demanding of an answer. She's no reason not to trust her… not after everything she's done for them. "Brittany," Santana tells her softly. "Her name's Brittany."
"Help me move some of these then," Quinn says as she reaches into the cart to push more crates aside. "It may have been good enough for Bret but this'll never do for Brittany."
Quinn keeps working to make a more comfortable space even as Santana stares dumfounded at the side of her face. Quinn only stops when she feels a pair of arms wrap tight about her middle and a cheek press solidly against the top of her back.
"Thank you," is whispered pitifully small into the back of her shoulder.
Quinn allows Santana to hug her, reveling for just a second in what it feels like to be truly appreciated. It's a novelty, of that she is sure, to be so… loved upon. Yet it's not reciprocated, not one sentiment of it. Santana is only grateful for she's agreed to keep her mouth shut. This is not in friendship, or kinship or any emotion other than utter relief. Quinn feels uncomfortable in the hold, the touch unwanted despite the slight, miniscule, way it makes her feel needed. She shakes Santana off, smirking as she reminds her, "Now you truly owe me an education."
Stanley arrives shortly thereafter with Noah in tow. He's a length of rope slung over his shoulder, the other end already tied about Noah's wrists. Noah gives Santana a dejected look as he holds up his bonds and she understands instantly. She's to be bound too. No sooner does the thought pass than Stanley takes her by the hands and fits a matching knot to Santana's wrists. Quinn throws her a sympathetic look as she closes up the cart gate.
At least Brittany is safe, right? is what her expression seems to convey as she steps back to allow Stanley to tie the rope off on the carts back posts. Santana knows he can see Brittany inside, but he says nothing in way of the arrangement as he continues to secure their bonds.
"Hope you both didn't work too hard today," he says as he gives a hard tug on the slack in the rope. The cart jostles some from the heave, Santana momentarily fearing more crates will tumble down upon Brittany. Even Stanley pauses, eyes rooted to the crates they can see stacked over the back gate. He gives Santana a grin when not a single crate slides out of place. "Good job, lass," he comments, thumping Santana solidly on the back. "Now here's hopin' you're not too beat to walk all day."
The journey is to take two days and yet by midday Santana feels as though she's been walking for four. Quinn walks ahead, charged with assisting those in ambulance five and unable to be by Santana's side as she promised. Santana doesn't fault her though, she knows Quinn will find them once they've stopped for the night. If I even make it till then, Santana thinks, weary. Through the slats in the back gate she can see Brittany resting inside the cart, squeezed in the little space she and Quinn were able to make for her. The canopy shade of the canvas roof stretched across the cart top protects her from the glaring light of the high sun, keeping her fair skin safe from needless burns. Already Santana can feel the tips of her own ears beginning to heat, the cool wind doing little to abate the damage being wrought from above. She wishes she'd never allowed Quinn to fix the braid into her hair. Granted it doesn't whip across her face any longer but given the alternative she thinks she'd rather a mouthful of hair than sore ears.
She'll have to sleep on her back for a while until they heal.
It is ever so uncomfortable a position to hold through the night.
But her concerns seem petty, so very asinine upon sight of the men and women working out in the fields alongside the road. They stop in their labor to watch the caravan pass, dark faces shrouded beneath the wide brims of their straw hats. It's no warmer here than it was a mere few miles back, the same frigid winds prevalent in their course across the land. And yet those scattered throughout the fields don the same unfit attire as she, blouses and shirts layered as thickly as possible against the chill, tattered scarves wrapped about the necks of those fortunate enough to have found the extra bit of fabric. Children stand close beside their mothers, gripping tight to dirtied skirts, faces awed by the sight of the Southern army marching past their masters' lands. No one waves, not one sound made as the caravan slowly makes it way down the road.
Santana catches the eye of one worker, a heavier-set woman whose once-hardened glare softens as her eyes catch upon the rope bound around Santana's wrists. The young woman gives her a sympathetic look as their gazes meet. Santana doesn't even wish to think upon how the woman must have lost one of her ears. Her own don't seem so pained in comparison. She doesn't even bother to think upon them again.
It's so different in the South; quieter and vaster than the lands she's grown accustomed to in the North. Whereas hills once dotted the landscape, now plains stretch out far beyond the horizon. She feels they're miles from the nearest town and leagues from the nearest bustling city. Does the South even have places like Cincinnati? She imagines not. Industry is not a Southern institution, of what she's heard and read of the South it seems to only consist of farms. Farms and mills.
She wishes Brittany were awake… she wonders if this is what Lima must look like, if that barn out there in the field is like hers at home. Do cows graze in pastures the same way in the North? Is the grass similar? Are her cows even they same color?
She spends so long simply imagining it all she fails to notice that Brittany has woken until she looks back in through the slates in the gate to find a pair of warm blue eyes watching her tiredly. Brittany doesn't know where she is, or why she's locked up like a hen on it's way to a prize ceremony. But the way Santana smiles at her, as if she shouldn't worry about anything ever again makes her feel safe. She reaches up, letting her fingers slip through the small gap in the wooden gate. Santana steps forward, sliding her own to fit between Brittany's.
"I don't want to sleep no more," Brittany whispers, feeling fatigue pulling her away.
"You need to," Santana tells her quietly, her voice carrying strongly over the sounds of cart rolling loudly over the bumpy dirt road. The crates in the cart squeak as they scrape against each other, wood knocking noisily against wood. All Brittany hears is Santana's voice. "I'm right here."
"I don't want no…" Brittany trails off as her eyes fall close and she settles back against the cart floor. "…no… ribbon…"
Her hand grows slack and slips back through the gap. Santana grips to the gate, resting her forehead against the panel as she walks behind the cart and bites back her tears.
"Keep faith, Santana," Noah tells her.
And for once, she takes heed of his hope.
The company camps along the roadside; bedrolls laid out beneath the stars whilst cumbersome tents remain strapped to haversacks. The men are high in spirit as they work to start fires in hopes of warding off the evening chill. Not one complains of the meager ration they are fed for thoughts are upon the homelands they return toward. Even Stanley's usually sour demeanor has softened as he loosens the rope tied about Santana's wrists. He hums a tune, one as unfamiliar to her ears as the slight smile he wears beneath his untamed mustache. And when his eyes meet hers she swears a new man must stand before her. Sympathy is not a quality becoming upon a bastard.
She squints up at him, eyes narrowed with distrust.
Stanley turns her hands over gently, undoing the last of the bonds. "Quinn'll tend to the burns," he tells her as the rope slips down from her raw wrists.
Santana is quick to yank her hands from his grip once free, unwilling to let even a second more of unnecessary contact pass. She rubs the damaged skin, twisting her wrist in hopes of subduing the soreness that's settled into the delicate bones. As she takes a step away from Stanley she ensures the look she throws up to him conveys her utmost contempt. But he believes it not, thinking Santana quite pathetic looking with the way she stands hunched hugging her arm to her chest as if every bone in her arm has shattered and he is solely to blame.
"You're not dyin', you know," he says as he bends to collect the rope from the ground. "Ain't no one ever died from a bit of rope burn."
"It's the principle of the matter," Santana snarls. "I chose to come South. Even if I wanted to run, where would I go?"
Stanley tosses the rope into the rear of the cart and looks back down at Santana from over his shoulder. Just behind where she stands in such defiance he can spot her two friends. The blonde one is still asleep, curled on a blanket Quinn was able to scrounge for the three to use during the night to come. The other, Noah he recalls, sits tending to the small fire a passing Southern soldier was kind enough to kindle for him. It's funny, he thinks, how fiercely protective she is of them and yet, "Don't you think that statement of yours needs some amending?" he asks, quirking a brow as he pointedly keeps his gaze rooted over her shoulder.
Santana's eyes darken. "I'd never leave them," she tells him viciously.
Stanley merely gives her an amused smile as he closes the back gate of the cart into place. It latches shut with a final shove, and he leans against it, nonchalant, a position he knows irritates Santana beyond measure. "If you say so, lass," he tells her, nodding back down to her friends. "You best help your friend there with keeping that fire strong. God knows you've enough in you right now to keep damn well ten of 'em burning through the night."
"I hope you sleep unsoundly tonight," Santana quips, her expression growing devious. "So much so that whilst in a fit of nightmarish thrashing, which as we know probably features Quinn in some perverse nature of sorts, you just so happen to roll into a nearby fire and that hideous creature growing on your top lip disappears in a blazing cloud of outdated smoke."
Stanley resists the urge to bring a hand to his moustache but the slight twitch of his fingers Santana more than notices.
She smirks up at him. "Pleasant dreams, man-pup."
Before she can turn to walk away he grabs her roughly by the arm. She doesn't turn to face him, merely holds her posture strong as he leans down to whisper in her ear. "You best learn to hold your tongue," he warns her. "The boys at the outpost won't be so kind." He can't see her expression, but can feel it in the way her shoulders tense and the muscles in her upper arm contract. He lets go, smiling at her reaction and gives her back a gentle push toward where Noah now watches them both closely. "Pleasant dreams, Santana," he calls out to her as she numbly sets herself down beside Brittany.
She says nothing in return, her back still turned to him as she reaches out to brush the hair from the blonde one's forehead. With a nod down toward Noah, Stanley walks off along the caravan to join his friends. He'll fill his belly with much needed beer; perhaps even follow along during a song two. He won't spend another minute thinking upon Santana, nor spare a glance to ensure her and the other two still remain beside the cart.
They've nowhere to run.
And even with his warning he knows she'll still be by that cart come dawn.
She won't forsake her broken husband.
Santana keeps scowling at Stanley's back until he disappears into a small group of men amassed by one of the larger fires beside the road.
"What'd he say to you?" Noah has been asking her repeatedly since she's sat down.
After what feels the hundredth time she turns to him, letting out an exasperated breath. "Puckerman," she snaps, shoving him aside as he tries to move closer. "It's nothing, okay? Complete horse shit."
"It's not nothing," Noah tells her. "He completely rattled you."
"I'm fine aren't I?" she says, turning away as she scoots up to Brittany's side. "Let me sleep."
"You should be nicer to him," Brittany mumbles as Santana wraps an arm across her waist. "He's my friend…"
"He's being an ass," Santana replies, mindful to allow her voice to carry to his ears.
"I'm being a good friend," he retorts.
He's a point, Brittany's gaze speaks and Santana lets out a groan as she buries her face in the crook of Brittany's neck. There's so much she need worry about and the added grief of Noah's insolence helps none. The tension melts from her body as Brittany slips an arm behind her back. Her touch is light, unsteady as she rubs a slow pattern across Santana's shoulder. It's so unlike the sure hand Brittany once touched her with and Santana knows this is the most she's able given her current condition. That she's even trying at all with this infection is incredible enough. Santana presses a warm kiss low to Brittany's neck, reveling in the soft hum Brittany lets out in response.
Santana brushes another a little higher, knowing Brittany is more alert if the way her fingers clutch to the back of her dress is any indication. And as much as Brittany enjoys the attention she is unable to focus, too many questions rising to the forefront of her mind. She's still no idea where they are, where they are even going let alone why she was in that cage today. Did that even happen? And still no Michael or Burt… no news…
Her arm hurts and itches something fierce but she pushes the discomfort aside. There is one question she's also been meaning to ask and as Santana's lips are about to meet her own she slips her hand to Santana's collarbone, halting her from lowering further.
"Why has no one come for us?" Brittany asks quietly. She looks up to brown eyes, imploring them for an answer. "Or at the very least for you?"
Santana pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Britt…"
"She could have left," Noah grumbles, poking at the small fire with the end of a charred stick. "They called for her back in Hartsville."
Santana sends a silencing glare his way.
"San, why didn't you—" Brittany begins to speak, brow furrowing with confusion until the sole reason dawns on her. Her face falls, eyes quick to collect with tears. "You stayed for me…"
"Brittany, you know I—"
Brittany hugs her fiercely, surprising even Santana with the spur of strength. "That wasn't very smart, Santana," Brittany tells her, voice wavering with unbridled emotion. She buries her face into the side of Santana's neck, crying freely as she tells her, "I love you so much."
Santana holds her tight, unwilling to let go. "I love you too."
Brittany pulls her into a kiss, hurried in its urgency. It's a need Santana more than meets, not caring for once who may be witnessing this exchange. The last of Brittany's strength wanes as quickly as it appeared, her arms the first to grow weak in her hold around Santana's back. Her lips slip over Santana's top, tongue tasting just a hint of tears. She's unsure if they're hers but her mind is growing hazy, eyelids heavy as she pulls back just a fraction to meet Santana's gaze.
Brittany can't remember the last time Santana's looked at her with such intensity. Too long... she thinks as her mind grows dizzy for reasons unrelated to the infection still laden in her blood.
Santana can see Brittany fighting to remain awake, but knows rest is what she needs most. She helps Brittany to settle as comfortably along the ground as she can, pressing soft kisses to her face as Brittany begins to succumb to fatigue. It's not long before Brittany falls asleep and Santana sits up beside her, running her hands slowly through short hair in a pattern she's fast grown accustomed to. Noah's back is turned to them from where he sits at the foot of the blanket. He must have heard everything yet if he did he doesn't let on.
She feels a pang of guilt for having treated him so poorly. Brittany was right…
"Noah?"
He turns his head, looking back to her from over his shoulder.
"Sorry," Santana mouths, the apology more evident in her eyes than her whispered word. Noah nods, giving her a small smile. He knows there's something she's still keeping from him but for now he will let it pass. Brittany is faring better, and all is as well as can be given their situation. He counts his blessings in that regard.
Quinn comes round shortly after, in her hand a simple journal and pen. Noah counts more than just his blessings when she arrives. He's surprised, surely, by this beautiful new arrival and so very grateful. But it also stirs something wrong in his gut, his defenses rising as she sits down beside Santana without a word, opening her book to a blank page and then stares expectantly up at her.
Santana is completely thrown by her sheer fortitude.
Noah decides she must be harmless and can't blame Santana for being so unresponsive. Pretty girls did tend to do that to him on occasion as well.
He clears his throat, extending his hand out as he musters as charming a smile to his face as he's able given his current state of exhaustion. "Hi," he greets her, grin widening. "I'm Noah."
Quinn looks to him, then to his chest, and lastly to his proffered hand. "I'm here to learn," she tells him.
"Me too," he easily supplies. "Starting with your name."
"Quinn, Noah," Santana says, motioning toward Noah with an idle flick of her wrist. She winces as the skin pulls and rubs at the raw marks to ease the tension.
"Stanley mentioned you might have been burned," Quinn says as she reaches into her pocket to withdraw a small bottle of what Santana quickly recognizes as a beeswax ointment. "This should help some."
Santana pushes the bottle back with a shake of her head when Quinn tries to hand it to her. "First lesson, beeswax doesn't allow skin to breathe."
Quinn quirks a brow, not understanding. Beeswax has healing properties; the surgeons were always slathering it over wounds to stop everything from bleeding to infection. "But it's—"
"Aloe allows skin to breathe," Santana continues, unwilling to let Quinn make a fool of herself aloud. "A burn needs to breathe."
"So then what is beeswax for?" Quinn asks. "We use it for everything."
"Wait, wait!" Noah exclaims after watching the exchange. "How is it you two know each other?"
"Quinn's the one who's been getting us supplies," Santana answers.
"And in exchange Santana is to teach me medicine," Quinn tells him, offhand. She turns back to Santana. "So beeswax… not good for measles?"
Santana thinks she may regret ever agreeing to teach Quinn but when Brittany's hand brushes against her side she knows she can't.
She'll stay up all night teaching her if she must.
It's not a choice.