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She can feel it.
Pain, radiating from her side, an ache that flares into a sharp flare of hurt with even small movement. Still, Romana grits her teeth, and keeps moving. She can't fall behind, she won't fall behind. Too many people are counting on her.
Venezia's counting on her.
She's soaked through her bandages again, she realises when she's forced to stop. Slowly she unwinds them from around her torso, the ones pressing her breasts down being slowly pull off. For once she ignores the embarrassment of being naked, cleaning the wound that covers her side with slow gentle soaks, the warmth of the water seeping into her skin.
The water turns red.
The bandages are tossed into a small pot to rinse them, new ones being wrapped around her body. The ache remains, but she bites down hard, tugging the bandages tight. She needs to stop the blood flow, she needs to be flat. She needs to be a man, because according to the men this is no place for her. Even if she feels the pain of all them dying, even if her sister needs her.
The wind sweeps across her neck, ruffling shorn down locks.
And like every night, Romana lets herself cry, just for a few moments. Tomorrow she'll be strong, tomorrow she'll be a cold, hard man, who can and will kill anyone. Tomorrow she'll keep marching, and soon she'll find her sister. Get rid of the Nazis. Get rid of Mussolini. It won't be tomorrow, but it will be soon.
Tonight she'll cry. For the people she's lost, for the sister that's being held from her. For Naples, half ruined, for her body, marked forever. For the blood that she's spilled, and for the hair she's cut off. She'll cry for many reasons, logical, illogical, emotional and rational.
Tomorrow she'll be strong