~TW: descriptions of heavy violence and warfare. If you're sensitive to such imagery or topics, please scroll through or proceed with caution. :)
There was smoke. Smoke and screaming. That was what woke Thomas late that night, what had him scrambling for his letters. His head started to pound again, and he shook himself to focus.
"What's happening?" he shouted above the noise.
"I think people are breaking in!" Byron shouted. "Quick, we have to get out of here!"
Thomas ran to his cell door, pulled at it, but it didn't budge. "First we have to get out of our cells!" he said.
Guards ran by, screaming orders at each other over the noise. As of now, in the chaos, their prisoners are forgotten and left to defend themselves.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and Thomas sprinted to the wall, jumping up on his cot to look out the window. There was a large crowd of people shouting and waving torches, charging across the bridge towards the Bastille. Through the firelight, another group was already at the large doors, breaking off the aging hinges and forcing the doors open. The guards on duty were defenseless to the mob, being shoved into the river under the bridge or trampled underfoot.
"Merde," Thomas cursed. He jumped off the bed, and ran over to the bars separating him and the couple. "They're breaking down the doors. What are they here for?"
"I don't know!" Isabelle panicked, running her hand through her dark locks. "Surely the revolution has grown since we've been in here, but I didn't think they'd come here!"
"None of us did!" Byron was crouched down at the cell door, using a rock to hammer away at the hinges. His efforts were futile, but they were better than nothing. He pounded away for long, painstaking minutes before someone appeared, running down the hallway and over to the doors.
"Stand back!" the stranger shouted in French, and Byron pushed Isabelle to the wall to shield her with his body. There was a loud crack of a gunshot, making Isabelle squeal, but the door was off and they were free.
Quickly, they did the same with Thomas's door, and as he ran from his cell, he realized he had underestimated how weak he was, and his knees nearly buckled under him. But Andre, who had already been freed by someone else, came to support him, slinging one of his arms across his neck. It was surprising and comforting to Thomas, their loyalty to him. He understood now the bond Alexander had shared with Lafayette, Laurens, and Hercules.
"Where to?" Byron asked the stranger, who gestured for them to follow him.
"Vous pouvez soit rester et vous battre avec nous," he said, "ou il ya une porte arrière au rez-de-chaussée." You can either stay and fight with us, or there is a back door on the bottom floor.
Thomas groaned as they stepped into a particularly bright patch of moonlight, and Andre turned to the stranger.
"Cet homme ne peut pas se battre." This man can not fight. "Emmenez-nous à la porte de l'arrière." Take us to the back door.
The stranger opened his mouth to respond, but a cannonball smashed through the wall, bringing down the wall around them. Andre shoved Thomas out of the way of the falling rubble, and he glimpsed the stranger falling out of the hole. He was thankful for the loud crashing that followed, otherwise he would have heard the impact of the man's body on the pavement below.
Isabelle let out a scream as Byron pulled her away from the hole and further down the stairs. "Keep moving!" he yelled. Andre followed, nearly dragging Thomas with him. He could barely speak, let alone move, frozen by shock.
If this is what Alexander had to face in the revolutionary war, Thomas thought, then he deserves more credit for it than he gets.
Thomas wasn't a stranger to the destruction war brought, but he had never fought in the thick of it. And now, with cannonballs and bullets flying amidst the smoke, he had a pretty good idea of what it was like. People ran past them, newly acquired weapons in their hands and blood on their boots. Chairs and benches that had once lined the hallways were flipped over and burning to ashes.
People lay in the hallways or in cells, lifeless eyes staring right into Thomas' soul. He shuddered and willed himself to look away as they were rushed down the corridors.
The stairs were long and winding, and the nausea Thomas felt wasn't helping his current state. Andre once released his hold on him to knock back someone charging them with a gun, and Thomas couldn't catch himself as he fell to the ground. He was somewhat thankful he was on level ground at that point, it didn't hurt as much as falling down the stairs would've. But it wouldn't have made any difference, as the barrel of the gun swung wildly as Andre wrestled the man for it.
A gunshot went off.
Pain exploded across Thomas' thigh, and he let out a strangled scream. His hand flew to the wound, now pulsing blood. In the firelight, it appeared as liquid gold smeared on his fingers, and his breath hitched in his throat.
He'd been grazed. Accidentally, but still grazed all the same. Iit wasn't an actual bullet wound, but it hurt like hell.
Andre finally got a hold of the gun and shoved the man down the next flight of stairs. Pain blinded Thomas to the point he didn't see the man's neck snap, and he didn't know which one was worse.
"Thomas!" Andre shouted, and pulled Thomas up. The movement made the wound worse, and he couldn't help but let out a yell. "Merde." Andre pulled him down the hallway, where Isabelle and Byron were running back to them.
Isabelle shouted Thomas' name, and acted quickly in the chaos. "What happened?"
"He's been shot!" Andre replied, and she looked at the wound.
"It's just a graze," she said, and ripped off a strip of her dress and tightly wound the fabric around his injured leg, gentle fingers working quickly. Thomas gritted his teeth, nearly collapsing at the pain. In that moment, he was very thankful for Andre and Byron's shoulders to lean on.
"It'll help," Isabelle told him. "With the bleeding."
He could barely hear Byron and Andre shouting over the turmoil, but over Isabelle's shoulder he could see the exit they were trying to make it to. Almost there, he willed, and sent a prayer to God. Andre and Bryon both helped support Thomas between them, and Isabelle led them down the hall, the smoke hot and thick.
They weren't far away from the doors when a soldier jumped in front of them, eyes wild and gun up. Fury and fear burned in his eyes, making him dangerous. Through the smoke, he read their situation quickly, and realized that they were prisoners escaping. The soldier's gun flew up and somehow Thomas heard it click as the barrel lined up with Byron's heart. He was in front, after all, and a prime target.
Someone screamed as the gun went off, but instead of Byron collapsing it was Isabelle who hit the ground, dark red blood blossoming across the front of her dress. Thomas heard Byron scream, a cry so full of pain and grief it physically hurt Thomas to hear. He hadn't even processed what had just happened, didn't know how to. Byron fell to his knees next to his wife, pulling her limp body into his arms. His shoulders shook, his hands turning red.
Rage filled Thomas, one he had never felt before. He ripped himself out of Andre's grip and flew at the soldier, a guttural noise coming from his chest, and hands slick with his own blood wrestled for the gun. He didn't care about the pain in his leg, the grief was worse. And he was damned if he didn't do something to protect his friends.
The soldier shouted something in French, but the chaos deafened him. Anger fueled Thomas, and he ended up slamming the man up against the wall. But in his weakened state, found that he couldn't hold him for too long, and collapsed to the ground as his leg gave away. That's how Thomas found himself on the ground, staring straight into a gun barrel the second time that night.
Shit.
He really was an idiot.
The gun went off and on instinct, Thomas jerked to the side. There was commotion around him as Andre tackled the guard, but immense, burning pain exploded just under his collarbone near his left shoulder. Andre's collision had thrown the gun off course, but it still hit its target.
He had fallen on his back right next to Isabelle. She was on her side facing him, her eyes closed. If they were open, Thomas would have most certainly given up right then and there. He didn't know what to do, but he rolled towards her, yelping at the shooting pain in his shoulder and leg. Shuddering, he whispered her name, reaching for her. When he touched his hand, her eyes fluttered open, bright with pain.
"Thomas," she whispered. Her gaze moved to his collarbone. "You're hurt."
He barely had time to reply before her head lolled back, releasing the last breath she'd ever take.
The rest of the night was a blur. In the years that followed the storming of the Bastille, Thoms would recall hands fumbling at his shoulders, and the violent pain when someone tied a shirt sleeve around his bullet wound. He would remember screaming, but unable to distinguish if it was from pain or grief. He'd remember Andre pulling him off the floor, the immense pain that left him floating in and out of consciousness. He also remembered thinking that Andre must have been quite strong to be able to carry him as far as he did, for the next thing he heard was water lapping gently against the side of something.
Thomas was laid down on something cold, maybe dirt, and he heard Andre say, "Rest now, my friend. In the morning, we will move."
He was surprised how quickly sleep claimed him.
~If any of you are confused, it's the storming of the Bastille. If there are any, I apologize for any historical inaccuracies.