2nd-3rd June late night: A warming sensation and cold sweat

It began late at night. The injured man should have slept a peaceful, drug induced sleep, his body gathering strength for its recovery. Yet it was too often that at time of safety the body relaxed too much and allowed itself the weakness which could in cases prove fatal. At first the patient had only appeared restless. The quiet, incoherent mutter in his sleep, betrayed the first signs of a delirium.

The temperature of his skin, betrayed another. The surgeon had to be called, which the assistant dreaded to do. Wishing he could have drawn straws and perhaps not won the shortest one, he made his way for the quarters of that man. He knocked. "Sir.." Knocked again. "It's urgent, sir." He called then.

"Will you shut it..it's late." Came a groan from not too far away. Not the surgeon, certainly, it was one of the unfortunate men, finding himself in the state of sleep all too close. "Keep it down atleast. Some of us here are sensible." He added, the latter somewhat muffled as he had already draped his arm over his head, trying to cover his ear in this fashion.

The man who had arrived so urgently however, had been just as loud as before in seeing to awake the surgeon. Perhaps he could have let the patient expire and he had half a mind to just let it weather out through the night, live or die, but foolishly decided not to.

"Sir!"

"I heard you the first time," growled Montreuil, emerging from his makeshift tent and crossing the short distance to the wagon. It was obvious from a cursory examination that the patient was suffering the effects of a high fever. It seemed that the draught he had given the lad earlier as a preventative measure had not been equal to the task, though that was not unexpected.

Wearily he delved into one of his chests and began mixing a new draught. He returned to the wagon and, without ceremony, raised the boy's head and attempted to force the drink down his throat.

The patient seemed less eager to cooperate with the surgeon as he had been in his state of awareness. He mumbled, shook his head as if trying to yank it free. His lips pursed together tightly. He jerked to the side without much of a warning tried to turn his head again, then shove forward, just to slump back onto his cot. His breaths were shallow and fast, his skin burning to touch.

Rousseau looked warily at the surgeon. If only they could wake him, so that he would drink it voluntarily and then, not choke on it! And preferably sleep very quietly. If he had not been so bothersome and loud at times, they would all have not ...well they would have bothered wouldn't they? Him being a fellow French soldat that few of them might even have been present in retrieving. Bloody damn.

Keeping the boy's head propped in the crook of his arm, Montreuil snaked his hand around and clamped the patient's nose closed, all the while holding the cup firmly against the lad's teeth. "I thought I told you to stay out of my sight," he remarked acidly to the figure hovering behind him.

The young officer pursed his lips tighter and then tried to breathe even with his nose clenched shut. It would have been amusing if not for the fact that the situation could very well kill him. He hmmhed, trying to inhale through the nose, being stopped short, trying again, and yet again, in quick succession. After a couple of futile attempts during which the lad twisted and attempted to turn, his lips finall began to part. It was almost as if only then he realised that there was another way that he could breathe, and that he would not drown if he decided to try it. After the initial surprise, his lips parted more and he gulped in the air, till his mind was settled at having enough.

Rousseau watched with morbid curiosity, lifting his gaze only to respond: "s' his fault." Indicating the injured man.

"Monsieur Rousseau," Montreuil began, forcing the cup past the parted lips and upending it, "It is within my power to brew up a concoction which will cause your balls to shrivel, die and drop off. Along with other important appendages. Now, since it is invetibable that you will someday find yourself under my knife.... Don't tempt me."

Saint-Hilaire coughed, mmphed but then, at last, the liquid was allowed down his throat and though he put pressure against Montreuil's hold, he did not close his mouth up until the cup was near empty, at which time he bit down on it, released it again and repeated it.

Rousseau clearly looked uneasy about the threat, knowing full well that there was a high chance for any man, that served in the army, for any reason, not necessarily caused by battle, to attend the surgeon atleast once. It was quite possible, to come to him more than once and he could not exactly go to the surgeon of the 17th Light, to be safe. Not to forget, that even if he could, the surgeons were probably in close relation with each other and this one could only suggest something to the other and viola, the problem would be the same.

"...Sir, I hadn't meant to cause trouble. it is for.." Quick, find a good excuse. "I heard him moan and thought he was in pain. Which.. would not be anything unusual, only he was burning up too. So.. I thought we needed to call you, because only you could save his life now." An attempt at flattery that he hoped would get him past a concoction of shriveled balls and important losses. "I thought you'd want to know if he was getting worse. And I think burning up is worse.. is it not?"

Montreuil gave a short bark of laughter. "Spare me your Christian charity, Rousseau. It doesn't suit you." He tossed the empty cup at the other man. "Clean that. If you insist on skulking about, you can damn well make yourself useful."

"Yes sir." The man hesitated. "You won't make a drink like that to have my balls shrivel, right?" He caught the cup, very keen on having it washed thoroughly before he was meant to return it if it saved his private treasure from being harmed.

With his back to Rousseau, Montreuil permitted himself a smile. "That depends."

It was unfair and it was cruel and no man was supposed to fear going to the surgeon for other reasons than the general factor of how safe the surgeons were in the first place. It was bad enough that they were not the most reliable men to save you insomuch as be the cause of your demise, but to be a purposeful one?

"Depends on what sir?" Rousseau inquired unhappily. Seeing the patient suddenly did not seem worth the hassle.

"It depends, Monsieur Rousseau, entirely upon yourself. Do not give me a reason to use it and I won't. Continue to insult my intelligence with ill-conceived lies, however, or interrupt my work with selfish concerns and things may go quite differently."

"..Understood." He then proceeded to clean the cup he was given, and only returned once it was as clean as new. This he offered to the surgeon, being much more quiet even if the patient still whimpered and turned. The man's skin was still hot, and he looked a frightening sight. Rousseau paused and quietly asked, what he hoped would not be considered an intrusion to privacy and a step forward into dangerous waters. "Sir...is he going to live?" There were still speculations that this was not a Frenchman, some also just wondered who he was and why he was able to survive. Rousseau wondered if he could shed light to whom attacked him and where this someone was now hiding. The French were itching to avenge their own people, who had been slain in horrendous ways by the enemy.

Montreuil took the cup with a grunted acknowledgement. "You have come to the wrong place for oracles, Monsieur Rousseau."

"I don't need oracles..jus' asking you for your professional opinion, sir. What are his chances?" Rousseau asked, showing some honest concern. Even if not from their regiment, if his words were true, this man was still a fellow French citizen, he was their comrade in arms.

The lad about whom the conversation went, still moaned in his cot and twisted and turned, which only caused more of the pained sounds. His skin was hot, he - exhausted but perhaps still stubborn enough to cling on, making the surgeon's work be not in vain.

"I am not optimistic," the surgeon replied bluntly, "Now, unless you plan on standing a vigil, I suggest you return to wherever it is you came from."

Rousseau glanced at the figure on the cot. The lad still twitched, shifted , whined and muttered. It was a sure sign he was alive. Only then he became silent. He hesitated. Had they just witnessed a death. Right now? Was the prognosis of the lack of optimism finally confirmed?

"...i'll.. go sir."

The shadowy figure that was Rousseau gradually faded from view, swallowed up by the night, but Montreuil remained staring into the empty darkness, the cup turning idly in his fingers, his mind, for the moment, somewhere else. Then, with a sigh, he turned back to the wagon, carefully packing away the small cup and checking to be sure he had remembered to lock the chest where his medicines were kept. Once he had assured himself that everything was secure and in its place, he started back towards his tent.

It began. From the peace at first, to the quiet murmur. Then silence, followed by a sharp order.An order to the men, then silence again and a shift on the cot. Hishead trashed from side to side. The dream, a mixture of things that felt so real. Orders snapped as if in a real fight. This fight that he was imagining though was a mixture of those seen in the near past and at times it was just the product of his mind, tired, exhausted, deriliuos.

"Halt." Was something more subtle of all the things he ad then muttered, mumbled and snapped in a tone, which would have made any a man of rank proud.

Muttering several choice words, Montreuil turned and walked back to the wagon. The boy had grown delirious and was calling commands as though marshaling some invisible army. Delusions of grandeur, no doubt. Or perhaps not. He had yet to ask the young man's name or rank. He was young, but certainly not too young to be an officer. Especially if he had a father or uncle well placed within the current government. Nepotism, Montreuil thought with cynical amusement, was alive and well, despite the new regime's meritocratic ideals.

The young soldier twisted again in his cot, and this caused a pained yelp to leave his lips. This however had soon been replaced by another order, confident and certain of success.

He settled down a bit and murmured what was best thought as encouraging words. Then:"We will escape..and we'll rejo'n our army! We will do our duty, not sit back an' wait for t'war to end. Not cowards, brave men..brave men.." This must have related to the time when he had chosen to take place among his men, when learning of their fate, which would soon be the 'prisons' of England. "Secure t' prisoners." Was then.

And then his natterings had become ever more confused, ever more mumbled and incoherent. Escape. His mind swayed between thinking himself a prisoner now and thinking himself finally safe. "I won't let you be taken by Portuguese...we'll.. prevail.." A promise, a bad one. He was becoming more quiet now, his mutterings weaker, his voice cracking.

Oh sweet Christ, thought Montreuil in exasperation. He was not going to listen to this. But neither was he about to let the boy undo all his good work. He retrieved several weights from his supplies and dragged them over to the wagon. He straightened the blanket covering the boy and set one weight on top of it, anchoring it to the leather mattress. Then, stretching the blanket taut over the sleeping form, he placed a second weight on the other side. He repeated this process at the other end of the cart near the boy's feet.

It would do nothing to reassure the young man of his freedom or safety, but that was not Montreuil's concern. He treated physical maladies. He had never pretended to be anything more.

The restraining fabric, in combination with the weights did miracles in restraining the wounded man in place. It was similar to having him wrapped up in a cocoon of fabric and tied to the bed all at the same time. It would not have had a calming effect on his mind. That was clear. The restriction of movement had alarmed the wounded form. Nevertheless it was a wise decision to make. Movement hurt his injuries worse than the lack of it, hurt his mind. Panic could be dealt with later, injuries that got worse to the point where survival was impossible, were better dealt with at that time.

Just as the surgeon expected, this position hardly reassured Etienne of his safety, of his being somewhere, where he was no longer a prisoner of he Portuguese. But then, his delirious mind could do no better at bringing forth the worse scenarios. He was fortunate thus to be kept in place instead.

"Please.." He had whispered. "Release me." He added, but truthfully, he did not know who was there. His exhaustion was making the real sleep a much greater possibility. A certainty, and.. a near to happen event.

"Shut up and go to sleep."