Short Stories [CountryHumans]

Medic (1855)

A/N: I couldn't find much about the Malakov online, but I did try my best with what I could find. Historical inaccuracies are inevitable, this time period really isn't my speciality.

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Smoke from musket fire and cannon shot hung heavy in the air, dissolving the world into a dull blur. For the second time, France made the charge up the hill, rifle in hand. Her body ached and fatigue weighed her down, but her focus remained on the tower of the Malakoff. The ground was unstable underfoot, making it difficult to keep her balance.

Bombardment from the Redoubt kicked up earth and laid waste the men who were unfortunate enough to be in the way of the rounds. Explosions and gunfire, underscored with shouts, rang out deafeningly loud.

A sharp whistling sound pierced the cacophony, and she barely caught sight of the round-shot before she was flung backwards into the man behind her.

France could not sit up. Agony radiated out from her shoulder, and she could not be certain her arm was even still attached. Red and blue sparks flickered across her wounds as crushed bones reformed and broken skin and muscle slowly dissolved and reformed into the correct place, but the process was slow—far too slow.

She tried to move, but after several days of combat, she was already too exhausted to heal with much speed. She instead lay on top of the body of the dead comrade who had been standing behind her, waiting for the energy debt to be repaid enough so she could stand back up and fight.

France did not know how long she spent lying there. Her mouth was dry, she felt so very cold, and her shoulder wound was still a bleeding mess of visible bone and torn muscle.

Someone calls out something, saying something about putting up a flag. She couldn't hear any more guns, although her ears were still ringing. The Mamelon must have been captured, even if the assault on the Malakoff had been rebuffed for the second time.

Dizzily, she wondered if someone would supply them with siege ladders before they made another attempt at the Malakoff.

Shivering, France tried to pull her blood-soaked uniform closer. It provided her little warmth, and the movement exhausted her, and worse, it attracted the attention of one of the other men. A shadow fell over her as someone lent over her, a man with a thin moustache and wearing a French uniform.

France blinked up at him, the sun behind him forcing her to squint.

"This one's still alive." The man called out behind him, and France realised that she was going to be given medical attention. Well, not if she could help it.

"I am fine," she told the soldier through gritted teeth, pushing as much Authority into her voice as possible. "I do not need medical attention."

The coercive effects of France's Authoritative Voice on her people were limited at the best of times, so it was frustrating but not surprising as she was loaded onto a horse-drawn cart, despite her protests.

She cursed her healing for failing her as consciousness escaped her.

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It was the pain that woke France up. Her injured shoulder was jostled as she was being lifted onto a bed, and the pain that shot through her arm forced her into wakefulness.

Someone covered her with the blanket, thankfully, and she pulled it tighter around her in an attempt to settle the chill that had seeped into her. France vaguely became aware that she had, at some point, been stripped of her outer layers, leaving her in her under-shirt and trousers.