The sun hung low over the fields, casting amber light over the dust of the narrow road. The wind blew restless through the cogon grass, carrying the scent of gunpowder and rebellion. Patrocinio Gamboa adjusted the shawl over her shoulders, one hand gripping the reins of the karitela, the other resting near the folds of her skirt — beneath which, hidden and weighted by careful stitching, hung a precious bundle: folded cloth stitched with stars and sun, contraband enough to get her hanged.
She clicked her tongue. The horse obeyed, trotting faster. Time was against her. The flag needed to reach General Delgado before sunset. Before another checkpoint rose. Before another patrol decided a woman with too much nerve deserved to be searched.
"Come on," she whispered to the horse, more to herself than to it. "Just a little farther."
Then she saw him.
A lone figure stumbled into the road from the brush — tall, limping, blood trailing down one arm. His uniform was like nothing she'd seen before. Not Spanish. Not Filipino. No regiment she could name.
She reached under the seat, fingers brushing cold steel. The dagger hidden there had never tasted blood. She hoped it wouldn't today.
"Stop," she said firmly, voice steady as she pulled the horse to a halt.
The man raised both hands. "I'm not your enemy."
Patrocinio narrowed her eyes. "Then what are you? A deserter? A spy?"
He swayed on his feet. "Not exactly," he muttered, before collapsing to his knees.
She moved quickly — cursing her own instincts, her own cursed compassion. She knelt beside him and pressed fingers to his pulse. Strong, but fast. Fevered.
"You're wounded."
"Yeah… shot. Just grazed. I think. I've had worse."
Patrocinio blinked. He spoke in perfect Tagalog — accented, yes, but fluently. And the way he said it, as if he'd had worse gunshot wounds, was utterly strange. Who was this man?
"Name," she demanded, tying a strip of cloth around his arm with practiced hands.
"Andres. Lt. Andres Reyes. Philippine Army."
"There's no Reyes listed among our officers," she said coolly. "And your rank? That uniform? It's not regulation."
His lips curled into a weak smile. "Would you believe me if I said… I'm from the future?"
She stared at him. The wind quieted, the road seemed to still.
Then she laughed. A low, bitter thing.
"The nerve of you," she said, standing. "A lunatic, or a liar. Either way, you're not my problem."
She turned to leave, but his next words halted her in her tracks.
"You're carrying the flag for the Proclamation of Independence… it's hidden beneath your skirt, stitched to your underskirt. You're delivering it to Sta. Barbara."
Patrocinio stiffened.
"No one is supposed to know that," she said slowly, voice like ice.
"I told you. I'm from the future. I know how this ends. And I know you don't make it past the next checkpoint without a husband."
Her heart pounded in her chest. No one, not even the soldiers who loaded the cart, knew how she had hidden the flag.
She looked at him — really looked. His strange clothes, the fabric unlike any she'd seen, the haunted intelligence in his eyes. He was either mad or telling the impossible truth.
She didn't trust him. Not fully. But something deeper, some buried instinct, whispered that fate had placed him in her path for a reason.
And she had no time to question fate.
"Fine," she said at last. "You want to help? You're my husband now. But if you breathe a word of nonsense again, I'll stab you myself."
Andres gave a weak laugh. "Understood, mahal ko."
She rolled her eyes and helped him up into the karitela. The horse neighed in protest at the added weight, but the wheels began to turn again.
As they rode toward danger disguised as lovebirds, neither of them could know how their fates had just entwined across time, bound by a revolution, a flag… and a story yet to be written.
Later that night, when the fires of sunset had dimmed and the hills of Jaro fell behind them, Patrocinio could still feel the strange tension in the air beside her. He hadn't spoken since they left the road. Neither had she.
She stole glances at him — his posture alert despite the injury, the quiet way he studied every tree, every sound, like a man out of place and time.
She didn't know who he really was. But she knew what she needed him to be.
For now.
And for now, that was enough.
"You follow orders?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Only when they come from women with knives in their eyes."
Patrocinio gave a short laugh despite herself. She looked away, toward the hills they'd need to cross.
"There's a checkpoint in an hour," she said. "When we reach it, you keep your head down and your mouth shut. I'll do the talking. Or rather — shouting."
"Shouting?"
"We argue," she explained. "I'm the loud, frustrated wife. You're the meek, beaten husband. That's the cover."
Andres raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I'm believable as meek."
"You'll manage," she said coolly. "Or we both die."
The checkpoint came just past a bend in the road. Three Spanish guards, muskets across their chests, stepped forward.
Patrocinio leaned out the window, eyes blazing. "We've been on the road for hours and he still insists he knows the way!"
One of the guards blinked in surprise. She continued, voice sharp and scathing.
"Next time I'll marry a horse — they at least know how to follow a trail!"
The soldiers chuckled. One glanced at Andres, who shifted uncomfortably under her verbal assault.
"I told her we should've waited until the rain passed," he muttered just loud enough for them to hear.
The guards laughed harder. "A husband with sense!" one of them called.
Another waved them through. "Let them go before she sets him on fire."
As the carriage rolled on, Patrocinio allowed herself a breath.
"Convincing," Andres said beside her.
"I've had practice," she replied. "From a young age."
Andres' Point of View
Andres Reyes—Lt. Andres Reyes, if the rank still meant anything in this century—watched the woman beside him with growing awe.
Patrocinio Gamboa.
He'd read her name in textbooks, recited it in dusty classrooms. A revolutionary heroine. Smuggler of a flag that would spark the flames of independence in the Visayas. He remembered the grainy photo of her in a museum display: stern-faced, determined. He never imagined the real woman would be this quick-witted, sharp-tongued, or utterly terrifying when angry.
She didn't trust him. Not really. But she hadn't left him to die on the road either.
That was something.
Every nerve in his body ached. The wound was shallow but still burned, and the time displacement sickness twisted his stomach with nausea. He had no idea how long he had before the effects worsened—or if they ever would stabilize. Temporal travel wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this.
But here he was. 1898. Colonial Philippines. And somehow, despite the madness of it all, he was sitting beside one of history's greatest women... pretending to be her husband.
If he hadn't felt the weight of the mission—the consequence of every step—they might've laughed at the absurdity.
Instead, he kept quiet, watching the road, memorizing every checkpoint and twist of terrain, just as he'd been trained to do. Only this wasn't a battlefield. Not yet.
"You're awfully quiet for someone who just lied their way into a revolution," Patrocinio muttered.
He smiled faintly. "Would it help if I said thank you for not leaving me behind?"
"No," she said. "It would help if you didn't get us killed."
He nodded, quietly admiring the steel beneath her voice.
He had no way to prove to her he wasn't lying.
But he knew this: he had knowledge that could save lives—or ruin them. One wrong word could fracture the timeline. One selfish move could erase everything. So for now, he would follow her lead.
And earn her trust, one mile at a time.