The cell door slammed shut with a clang, and the soldier strutted off, whistling a tune.
"I'd do it all over again," Hopkins shouted through the bars. "You're a damn bastard!"
Sanford sighed, and with his back against the wall, slid down to the dusty floor. Hopkins absently wiped at his nose, smearing the blood leaking down his face. That conflict had been stupid and unnecessary. The Captain could be such an idiot at times.
"Well, well. Look at us, the rebels." Turner sat hunched in the corner, his face bruised and bloody. Apparently, he, like Hopkins, was unable to restrain his fists.
"That is not a title I wish to bear," Sanford said. "I'm a doctor, for God's sake."
"You must've done something wrong to land you in here."
"I tried to get aid for Foster. It didn't go well, as evidenced. The Captain intervened."
"Oh ho, Captain. What did you do?"
Hopkins chuckled, bearing a sly grin. "I beat him senseless," he said. "Nobody disrespects the Doctor."
"And yet because of your tomfoolery," Sanford said, "we're here. Had you let me handle the situation we wouldn't be in this cell, nor would we have lost Foster."
"Lost Foster?" Turner's voice lacked his usual gall. "As in…"
"No, he's not dead. He's just not in my care anymore." Sanford shook his head, a scowl on his face. "Always assuming the worst."
"Hey, it was a fair assumption," Turner replied. "Who's got him now?"
Sanford paused, exchanging a glance with Hopkins. "Fox."
Turner slammed his fist into the wall. "Son of a bitch! You let that bastard take off with Foster?"
"What else was I to do?" Sanford snapped. "Who else would willingly help him?"
"I'm sure there's plenty of others that could help who aren't backstabbing, lying traitors." Turner pointed accusingly at Hopkins. "You know, if you had believed me the first time, then maybe none of this would have happened."
"Oh, don't blame me for this," Hopkins said.
"But I told you. I told you!"
"I know, I know." Hopkins ran a hand through his hair. "And I should have realized it sooner, but I just didn't think…" His voice trailed off.
Sanford grimaced, knowing he was in the same boat as Hopkins. Deep down, Sanford had suspected Fox had been the traitor. There had been so many times where he seemed off, brief moments of internal turmoil or oddly spoken words. It was so clear, and yet Fox had still managed to fool everyone. Mostly everyone, anyways. And maybe that was because Sanford didn't want to believe Fox was capable of committing such an atrocity. Because nobody wanted to believe that Fox, loyal and passionate and kind, would ever turn his back on them.
Oh, how they were wrong.
"What's done is done," Sanford said. "Fox made his decision, and we made ours. Perhaps in the future, we won't be so dull."
"Try and get some rest," the medic said. "I know that might be difficult in the scenario you're in…" His voice trailed off as he glanced at the tent entrance. Then the medic shook his head and snapped back to attention. "But nobody would dare attack an injured man, enemy or not. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other things to attend to." And he shuffled out of the tent without another word.
Foster rolled onto his side and shielded his eyes with his hand, yet he ensured he had a clear view of the entrance. Dammit, how did he end up here, helpless on a cot, surrounded by red coated rats? Typically, one should still respect their enemy despite raising arms against them, but Foster saw their sneers and heard their jeers. How could he respect a people who flaunted their victory? Who would have shown no mercy to the surrendered? Whose arrogance runs unparalleled? He just couldn't.
Moreover, Mustache—Chaney, was still alive, and Foster felt his efforts had amounted to nothing. Twenty days were spent under siege and nothing was accomplished. Maybe Rhodes had been right when he suggested they make a tactical retreat. How many lives would have been saved?
A gust of winter blew as the tent flaps were pulled open, and a soldier, now garbed in scarlet, hesitantly stepped inside.
"Hey," he said, a rueful smile on his face.
Foster sucked in a breath. No. Not him, not now. He couldn't handle this.
"How are you doing?"
"Isn't it rather audacious of you to ask me how I'm doing?" Foster uncovered his eyes, letting his gaze rest on his visitor. "I see you've returned to your true colors," he said, gesturing to the uniform. "I'm disgusted you ever wore ours."
Fox winced and dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry. I—"
"No, it's fine, really." Foster sighed. "You shouldn't be sorry. Truly, the blame falls on us for not realizing it sooner." He paused. "And for refusing to believe Turner."
Foster wondered how many others were like him, who couldn't imagine Fox ever deceiving them. Naive. Hopkins, certainly. Hell, he beat Turner when he had accused Fox. The doctor? Probably. Fox had saved his life, after all.
"Was there something you wanted to say to me?" Foster asked. "Or were you just looking for a way to relieve your guilt?"
"I had to do it."
"Yeah, I'm sure you had your reasons, and they're probably good ones too. I'm just… Was the emotional manipulation part of your original plan? Because it worked a little too well. Props to you."
Fox ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Listen, I did what I had to do," he said. "Like how you and Captain Hopkins were fighting for your kingdom, I was fighting for mine. If faced with the opportunity, you would have done the same."
Would he have? Would Foster go undercover for half a year, train amongst the enemy, become their friend, and then immediately turn around and stab them in the back? For his kingdom, would he go to such lengths?
"You're right," Foster said. "I would do the same. I'd just make one alteration, though. I wouldn't befriend the enemy."
"I'm sorry, I—"
"No, no. This is actual strategy we're discussing now, Fox. Don't befriend the enemy. It makes you an ineffective soldier."
"Ineffective? I'm not ineffective."
"The battlefield is a vicious place. It's kill or be killed. A good soldier will kill his enemy without hesitation. The moment he sees humanity in the opposing side, he is no longer fit to serve." Foster met Fox's gaze. "You're ineffective."
"I completed my mission," Fox said. "How can I be—"
"You're here now, aren't you? With me, the enemy." Foster rolled onto his back, shifting his arms so that one pillowed his head and the other shielded his eyes. He let out a dreary sigh. "Go, Fox. Re-embrace your scarlet colors, forget you ever wore mine," Foster said. "Oh, and for the sake of your kingdom, I suggest you don't speak to any of us again. You shouldn't see us as equals, let alone your past friends. We're your enemy. Treat us as such."
The tent was silent, then Foster heard the shuffling of footsteps and felt a rush of cold air. He didn't need to see it to know that Fox was gone.
"You're a sharp man, Captain." The Colonel rested his hands on the map laid before them, his fingers drumming on the parchment. "Though I must ask, why didn't you do it sooner?"
Rhodes stood at the other end of the table, expression stiff as a board.
McCoy stroked his beard. "From what I've heard," he said, "you abandoned your post before the siege had even started. You could have sought me out the day I arrived and surrendered, yet you didn't. Why?"
"My motives are not pertinent to our current situation," Rhodes replied simply. "But if you really must know, I acted out of self-interest."
A lie through his teeth. Rhodes was stalling for time, his hopes still pinned on reinforcements arriving.
After he had resigned his title, Rhodes didn't leave like he had planned to. He couldn't bring himself to abandon his men. Instead, he camped in the nearby woods and kept a tab on the enemy's movements. On one of his outings, he ran into Ellison. Jackson was found and captured by enemy troops, Ellison told him. Though fortunately, Ellison managed to snatch the letter before it fell into enemy hands. Rhodes sent Ellison to the Northern border and then with the letter en route, all Rhodes had to do was bide his time.
So he waited. Minutes into hours, hours into days, days into weeks. He witnessed the near assassination of Hopkins, the execution of Jackson, and the midnight attack on Foster, which he sat silent all throughout, waiting. But on the day when the arrows rained down, the gates threatened to give, and infiltration of the fortress was inevitable, Rhodes couldn't stand by. He sought out Colonel McCoy and surrendered for his troops knowing they wouldn't do it on their own.
"Fair," the Colonel said. "Self-interests are the most advantageous motives, are they not?"
Rhodes didn't reply.
McCoy chuckled with a honeyed smile. "Well, thank you for your time, Captain." He crossed the tent and rested an arm on Rhodes' shoulder. "Shall we?"
Rhodes felt his muscles tense, and he shifted from one leg to another. "Shall we what?"
McCoy pushed aside the tent flaps and led Rhodes outside. Squinting against the glaring sun, Rhodes followed the Colonel through the camp. Snow crunched underfoot. Winds stirred, yet everything was still. The camp was barren, empty. No soldiers, neither red nor black.
"Where are my men being held?" Rhodes asked.
McCoy said nothing and herded Rhodes up the hill, towards the fortress gates. With every step, Rhodes became more conscious of the sour unease riling within him. His troops. Where were they?
The Colonel pushed open the gates.
Rhodes got his answer.
Lined shoulder to shoulder, sacks over their heads, backs to the fort entrance.
Turner, Sanford, Hopkins.
"No." Rhodes jerked out from beneath McCoy's languid arm, whirling on him. "No, I did what you asked. I told you our plan of operations, and you gave me your word you wouldn't lay a finger on any of them."
"Insubordination," the Colonel drawled, "comes with a heavy cost. They pay for defiance with their life."
"Let them go," Rhodes said. "If anything, I'm at fault for their defiance. I failed to discipline them properly."
"You're assuming responsibility for their actions?"
"Yes."
"Then join them, Captain. Take your place beside your men." Rhodes remained still, and the Colonel tilted his head. "As expected. You never did seem like the man to challenge authority."
Rhodes let his head drop in shame and his gaze fell on the saber at the Colonel's waist. He needed to stall. Just for a little longer.
In one swift, and maybe reckless, movement, Rhodes unsheathed the Colonel's saber and turned it on him. "Let them go."
Red coated soldiers bristled with hostility, ready to leap into the offense at first command. McCoy looked down at the blade tip pressed against his throat.
"Pardon my men," Rhodes said, "and nobody will be harmed."
McCoy laughed, a deep and hearty chuckle. "Foolish," the Colonel finally said with a fleeting smile, "that you choose to act now rather than sooner. And it is foolish that you fail to properly assess the tides."
A brilliant pain shot through his chest.
Rhodes sucked in a sharp breath and lowered his saber, letting the blade fall from his grasp. Gingerly, he brought his hand to his chest where beads of blood were blossoming beneath his shirt.
Oh God.
He'd been shot.
Rhodes felt his knees give out beneath him, but before the cold ground could greet him, McCoy grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him close.
"It's amusing," he murmured in Rhodes' ear, "that you believed you could prevent the inevitable, change the path of fate. In this struggle, you were powerless. You are powerless. Your kingdom will fall. You'll die for nothing."
McCoy released his shirt, and Rhodes crumpled to the ground.
"T-they shot him! They shot Captain Rhodes!"
The fort was swept into a crescendoing chaos, yelling and shouting, steel against steel, yet Rhodes hardly noticed any of it. Rather, his attention was fixated on the flakes of white gently drifting to the ground, the soothing lullaby of the wind, the warm embrace of the snow. He turned his gaze up to the sky, painted red and gold and purple. Rhodes sighed and let his eyes flutter shut, the colors of the sunset still vibrant in his fading consciousness.
It was beautiful.