Headaches - 6 June

Contrary to his expectations, Christian wasn't dead, but the splitting pain in his skull rather made him wish he were. The ground seemed to buck under him and he groaned and tried to curl into a ball. Another jolt. He began to be aware that he was lying on the floor at the back of a wagon of some sort. Following hard upon that knowledge was the realization that he was about to be sick. Throwing out an arm, he grabbed for the side of the wagon – he missed. Part of him wondered how that was even possible. He tried again and this time managed to haul himself up high enough to hang over the edge.

He didn't understand why his innards should protest when it was his head that had got stove in, but protest they did, spasming violently even when what little was left in his stomach was gone. All the while the world around him spun wildly until he thought he would be sick all over again. Shutting his eyes, he clung to the side of the cart.

When the sickness and vertigo at length subsided, he lowered himself back down until he slumped shivering and exhausted against the inside of the cart. His head rocked back against the wooden boards setting off an artillery barrage of pain and light inside his skull. "Jesus—" he moaned, sagging forward away from the treacherous wall.

Charcot recoiled in disgust. Why did he have to deal with this ridiculous mess? He wanted to be out there chasing prisoners! This was no job for a soldier. He had half a mind to leave the man in his own vomit, but he did not wish to earn Montreuil's wrath. "Sir!" he called out, bellowing next to Christian's head. "This man just puked all over the wagon!"

Montreuil rolled his eyes in disgust, offering up several choice words. "Fine. Shift him over to the other wagon. Then clean up that mess."

"Me?" Charcot exclaimed in surprise.

"No, the goddamn emperor. Yes, you!"

Charcot scowled, but he directed his invectives against the prisoner rather than the surgeon. This was no work for soldiers.

"Come on, lousy filthy stupid..." he grumbled, grabbing the man's arms and dragging him bodily to the back of the wagon where it was easiest to heave him out. The useless beggar had better be able to walk...

Christian hit the ground with all the grace of a bag of rocks, spitting out a mouthful of inarticulate curses. He wanted to dive at the Frog, to knock him off his feet, but all he could to was clutch protectively at his own head which was now throbbing so violently, he thought it must burst at any moment.

"Come on, get to your feet, stupid!" Charcot grumbled, darting a glance over his shoulder to see of Montreuil had witnessed his mistake. He hauled the fellow up by the arms and wrapped one of them around his own shoulder. "Walk, walk! I know your legs work, so walk!"

Christian dragged his feet in general direction the soldier was taking him, leaning heavily on the other man. He didn't wonder where they were taking him; he didn't care. Only, if they were planning on shooting him, he wished they'd do it quickly. At least then his head would stop hurting.

"Here, stay here," Charcot ordered, leaning Christian against the wheel and even lifting the man's hand to hold onto its metal edged rim for support. He didn't want the man falling again while he opened the door, not with Montreuil so close by. There was someone else in the wagon, curled in the back corner - a woman, he realized with surprise. But it was no matter. There was plenty of room for more. "Come on," he said to the rosbif, before realizing that the stench had followed them.

"Ugh! Sir, he puked on his jacket too!" he shouted. The woman in the shadowy wagon whimpered in protest at the disruption.

"Monsieur Charcot," Montreuil snapped, "Do I look like a laundress?"

Charcot decided it was best not to answer the question. With a grimace, he propelled the man up the ladder, stinking jacket and all. "Up you go, in there."

Christian crawled forward several feet into the darkness before collapsing. He was in yet another wagon. Or maybe it was the same one. It didn't make any sense, and it certainly wasn't funny but he suddenly found himself laughing at the thought. It was a high, quiet, shuddering sound. And he should stop, he knew he should, but he was past caring.

Idiot. He really was cracked in the head, Charcot thought as he slammed the door shut, and headed off grumbling to complete the more unpleasant task of cleaning up after the bastard.

"Quiet!" Jenny entreated pitifully, protesting the laughter and the slammed door.

Christian stopped laughing. He knew that voice. Uncurling, he looked up and peered at the shadowy and oddly blurry figure several feet away. "Jenny?" he said quietly as though if he spoke any louder the illusion might shatter.

And Jenny knew that voice. "Mike," she said quietly, something like pleasant relief in her tired tone. It was good to have a friendly visitor, even though she had been trying to sleep. She uncurled from her corner and slid nearer to him. She was not much interested in conversation - she still wanted to sleep - but she was grateful that he had come to see her. She found his hand. "How did you know I was here?"

Christian squeezed her hand gently, the pounding in his head all but forgotten in that moment. It was really her, he thought blearily, vaguely surprised at the surge of joy the realization brought. Pain, however, quickly forced its way to the forefront of his consciousness and he became aware that he was simply staring at her, and that she had said something to him. "Uh..." Say something idiot! he thought desperately. "I-I didn't," he stammered, "They just.... put me in here. You're not hurt are you? They didn't hurt you?"

"No," she said in a mellow, dreaming, far-away voice as she closed her
eyes again. "You?" She vaguely remembered seeing him injured, but
obviously he had lived through it.

Christian felt a rush of relief. She was alright. "Nah," he lied, pushing himself up so that he could sag against the side of the wagon. He let his head sink forward onto his arm and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her hand in his. Despite the pain and fact that they were prisoners and the seeming eventuality of rotting in some Frog prison, he felt absurdly happy.

Jenny laid her head against the leather mattress, content to fall asleep again. She felt drunk and dizzy, with the sensation of pain somewhere in the distance threatening to return if she did not bury it in sleep. But something confused her. If he had not known she was there, why had he come? Had he already explained that? She could not remember.

"Why are you here?" she murmured, her eyes barely opening to look up at him. He was sitting above her with his head on his arm. "Lie down."

Obediently, Christian eased himself down onto the leather mattress. That seemed better somehow. "It's nothin'," he mumbled, "Just a bump on the head."

"Oh." His answer satisfied her. She smiled, closed her eyes again and fell asleep.

His head still ached appallingly, but the throbbing had settled into a steady tattoo and eventually, succumbing to the demands of a concussion, he slept as well.