[(TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic imagery and strong language (I'll censor). I am so sorry, it is how war is. I've read about it.)
1. *drumroll* AND THE SURVEY WINNER IS.... yeah I can't tell you just yet. All will be revealed.
2. If you cry/feel sad or depressed, curl up in a blanket, get ice cream, and listen to Bruno Mars. It helps.
3. Enjoy, and don't forget to vote and comment! It means so much to me I love you all!]

In the madness that was happening, I didn't think I needed earplugs because I thought the gunshots would be loud enough to drown out the screaming.

Well, as usual, I didn't think it through well enough, so war was almost as hellish for me as it was for some recently widowed nurses three feet away.

"Motherf--king Britishers!" I hissed, flinging open a cabinet angrily and snatching up a bottle of rum to give to the surgeon, thankfully turning away from-

The stench of blood wafted around me from all sides, and I flew over stretchers and dirty surgical equipment to get to the farthest end of the area.

Shoving the alcohol at the surgeon, I waited a minute with bated breath and sighed as the screams two feet away from me stopped as the soldier slept and the surgeon drew out a knife.

I really, really freaking hate my job sometimes.

The 17th of October, 1781. That was today. An ordinary, cold, hellish day.

Quietly, I slipped out the back of the tent to get some air.

We were three days into the war and I didn't know if we were winning or the British were losing.

But the British had malaria. Good.

I was glad Hamilton or the others hadn't been wounded or had gotten sick, but the one I worried for the most was Lafayette. As far as I knew, the people who were resistant to malaria were the ones who had either suffered it already (which were the Americans) or the African-American troops.

Lafayette and the French forces had arrived a month ago, in September, so as far as I knew they had a little time left before malaria could hit them.

On the other hand, this put me at serious risk of dying because I wasn't native to this kind of America. And frankly, I hated bugs in general, and this place was teeming with them.

A mosquito buzzed in my ear and I yelped, taking a step away and falling over some poor soldier.

Step 0: Check if he's American or British.

At first, I saw that the back of his uniform was so red he looked like a Redcoat.

Then I realized the peculiar color was just blood. Lots of it.

I didn't know whether to be relieved or disgusted.

Step 1: Try not to vomit, run away screaming, or faint from horror.

Check.

Step 2: Examine the body. Repeat Step 1.

Taking a deep breath, my hand latched onto the soldier's shoulder and I pulled him over with a grunt.

Holy sh-t.

It was unlike anything I had ever seen. He had an arrow sticking out from his side―blood was still spurting weakly out of the wound. His face was so bloody and beaten up that it was hard not to feel queasy at the sight. A bullet had ripped away the flesh of some of his leg and I could see a small amount of bone.

Despite all the pain he went through, there was actually a small smile on his face, like he'd found peace amidst all the horror around him.

I lifted up his wrist and checked for a pulse, my breathing shallow from the stench and sight.

There wasn't one.

Step 3: If alive, transport to nearest hospital. If dead, mourn. If available, call partner.

There was, however, a small piece of parchment curled loosely within his hand, and I pulled it out and read it.

It was a love note-unsigned, unfinished.

When I saw who it was addressed to, I involuntarily let out a whimper.

"Animating object of my life... affection heightened and improved by time... you have rendered me as restless and unsatisfied with all about me... I wish it were in my power, by actions, rather than words, to convince you that I love you. . ."*

An October breeze went by, and I came to my senses, wiping my eyes hastily.

Matron burst out of the tent behind me. "Fleming! Where were-"

Slowly, she registered the scene in front of her, the cogs in her brain stopping for a frighteningly long minute.

She collapsed, a hand shakily going to her mouth, the full force of what she saw hitting her like a bullet to the head. I hastily gave her the letter, going back to the tent to give her some privacy.

My mother told me once when I was mourning over a math exam in high school, "You've learned the hard way what looking back can do to you. You're supposed to be going forward. Don't turn around; just keep going."

I turned around.

And there was Matron-rocking her dead husband's body back and forth, reading the bloody, unfinished letter over his chest, singing softly to him, the lyrics broken by harsh, choking, aching wailing-and it was simply too much for me.

Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find a way.**

I gulped and flung myself back into the tent, not paying any attention anyone, not able to see clearly through my tears.

Everyone here was dying.

The 19th of October, a little past noon. I didn't help with the uglier cases as I usually did; rather, I stayed more off to the sidelines―wearily handing out bandages to other nurses, cleaning syringes, sorely tempted to drink the alcohol that was used as a pain-reducer in surgery while grabbing some cotton to stuff into my ears.

It helped with the screaming, at least.

Eventually, Matron came over to me and squeezed my shoulder. I saw her usually hardened mouth crack a gentle smile. It formed some words I couldn't hear, but she looked up past the tent cover and into the sky.

Her face saddened; she gripped my hand and looked back at me in earnest, whispering a single word: "Fight."

There aren't any euphemisms in a war. I got my hands bloody again, working my way up to the gruesome cases, still bothered by the smell and the sight, but quietly trying to help start a new nation all the same.

The tent flap opened and closed for hours, bringing in wrecks upon bloody wrecks of soldiers.

It did it again and again, and again, and―

The noise outside suddenly came to a grinding halt, and we held our breath, anticipating what was to come next.

And the noise outside grew and swelled like a giant wave of water, roaring and sweeping the camp and the new country and every corner and crevice of the United States of America. It thundered through the tents, and the soldiers in ours smiled as one.

Everyone outside was yelling, screaming, stamping their feet, and, a few minutes after we walked outside, we saw Lafayette and Hamilton, shouting wordlessly at each other and giving each other bone-crushing hugs.

There was Burr, walking calmly up a hill and smiling widely.

When George Washington rode up the hill on his horse, Lafayette's mouth opened in a huge grin and he raced off to shout the good news to him (as if he hadn't heard already): "Nous avons gagné! C'est fini! Liberté, égalité, fraternité!"

Tens of thousands of people flooded the streets, almost ambushing the oncoming soldiers, but Alexander took a carriage toward his house―he had to meet his son, after all.

What could be a more prouder victory than having a kid in a new, free nation? He thought.

*I bet you recognized where one of the sentences in the love letter came from, didn't you? I basically meshed up 3 love letter writers: Henry Knox to his wife, John Adams to his wife, Alex Hamilton to his wife, and of course Alex Hamilton to John Laurens, his RAGING GAY IMPULSE CONTROL "PLATONIC" LOVER―

**This was an actual song from the 18th century, took me a while to find. It's Matron's and her husband's song. There was a (fictional) RUMOUR among the nurses that he went missing in action.

CAN WE JUST PRETEND THE NEGOTIATION HAPPENED please I'm kinda tired, it's 3:30 AM, I've been writing since 12 AM, and I gotta get up at 5:30 today.