•THE LANCELOT• {lafayette x reader}

bataille de brandywine

✧
September 11, 1777

warnings: somewhat graphic depictions of battle, specifically of injury.

Although faded, you could pinpoint every exact spot where a bruise once brightly was. You tilted the blade of Lafayette's spotted saber, grimacing at the redness around your neck that appeared in only your eyes. Perhaps a phantom, the muted purple, yellow and blue blotches still littered your skin in an imprint of the rope, and pinches of pain still occurred when the light pad of your finger touched the area.

The event caused you to contemplate your abilities: you had taken them for granted. Your actions had been too impetuous and not well thought out. It made you realize how quickly you had thrusted yourself into military operations and carried an ignorance for order in camp. Your status was crumbling, and it brought diffidence into your personality.

"Why do you have Lafayette's sword?" Hercules murmured, readjusting the wool blanket that only covered half of his frame. The candle you had lit illuminated the darkness of early morning. You touched a red spot, pulling your finger back but not wincing when pain was present.

"Boredom consumed me," you deadpanned. You turned the saber over and focused on the tiny spots of dry blood that hadn't been cleaned off. You ghosted a finger over the blade, coming so close to adding more blood stains to the weapon. The little voice buried deep in the back of your head told you to refrain.

"Careful," Hercules warned, somehow knowing what you wanted to do. Listening to that little voice, you opted out and removed your finger.

"Making the effort to prevent me from having fun?" You asked, a hint of jest in your tone. He gave out a short, gruff laugh and tumbled over to his previous side. You couldn't see his face, but you knew he had fallen back asleep when you heard a rhythmic, low grumble from his place on the tent floor.

You bent over to the chair by your cot and grabbed the pin cushion and thread, along with the squares of fabric you had been seaming together. Sewing had become your most favoured hobby. Your current project was a log cabin quilt. You had seen your peers craft them long ago, and felt it would be easy to start one yourself. It was tedious, but little by little you focused on finishing the quilt; so meticulous for a negligent lady like you.

After an hour of seaming, you became wearisome. You set the cushion, thread and fabric down on the chair and stretched your limbs, a pop coming from every stiff joint you pulled at. Alexander and Hercules had already woken, leaving John, who was sleeping soundly on his back. Lafayette was no where to be seen, which you hadn't noticed. The two risen gentlemen saw to their own buisness; Hurcules shined his boots while Alexander sat reading responding and inquiring letters to His Excellency.

You slipped out from underneath your blanket and yawned. Wondering as to where the sunlight was, you wrapped your blanket around your shoulders and stepped out of the tent with a hand keeping the flap open, eyes widening when you saw a vast, thick blanket of white that crept low over the valleys and hills. It made it hard to tell if it was the early or middle hours of morning. The ghost suffocated every tent and tree at their base, swallowing every surrounding object in its path.

It was easy to forget where you were with the fog coating your diameter. Even without closing your eyes could you imagine home once again, playing the cello while a harmonizing hymnal was sung the background along with it. The tune carried through your daydreams as you began to hum them into the clouded air. It wasn't necessarily chilly, nor warm either. It was a temperature you couldn't feel on your skin or through your hair. It was steady; and that felt ominous to you.