4th June: Visitations

"Aye. Three sisters and a brother. You?"

"I do. Two sisters. " He looked thoughtful. He could just barely recall their faces to memory and felt their last meeting distant. "Anne and Jeanne." He glanced at Kerjean. "You are the oldest?"

"No, Izold and Ana are older than me. Ruaud, he is about your age. Elena is the youngest, though she must be a young woman by now."

"They change so fast when one is away, and yet don't seem to change at all, when in your presence." The lad mused. "Is your brother also in the service?" He asked as being of his age, he could have been in the regiment himself.

They were not the only ones to change. "I hope not," he replied soberly. Though he held out no real hope that his brother would be spared that fate.

"When one tastes war, they do not wish it on their own." Though he had the zeal for it and thought so many others should have. Only here, in Portugal, everything had gone south, had gone wrong. Here the enemy was not the soldiers, but militia, the general population. As in Spain they appeared mad and cruel.

What has your profession been, before you joined? If I may ask."

War was not something he had ever needed to taste in order to know that, but he did not say as much. "Metay—We were farmers. We worked the land for le seigneur."

"You are well learned of the land then. Excellent for the foraging trips." Saint-Hilaire nodded and touched a hand to his temple. He thought he should lie down soon, but then he did not wish to sleep yet, dreams not the most pleasant.

He shrugged; he was better at the heavier tasks, building walls, working on roads and the like. "You goin' to be alright?" he asked as the younger man pressed a hand to his head. "You sure you don't need the sawbones?"

"I am certain, thank you. I'm only somewhat lightheaded. I do not think I could master a good march just yet." He was not feeling well. He sighed and raised his gaze back on the man. "I beg pardon for being such poor company and holding you from.. a better."

"Ain't no call for that," he said mildly. He wasn't sure where the lad had got that idea; he was far more talkative than Paol ever was. Even so, it was probably best if he didn't linger too much longer. "You got any mates back with your regiment I could pass word along to?"

"Many are dead." He shook his head his expression becoming sober. He did not know if any of his men had reached the army on time, he knew many of them were slain, because he was there. He lowered his gaze. "...I do not want the others to see me this way." He knew he was hiding in a way. He did not want to call it running away, just taking a rest to recollect his thoughts before he would need to report on his failure to bring his and men from few other regiments back. He blamed himself for it, even if perhaps it was not his fault at all.

"May I ask that of you? That you are to carry my message, in all that I will tell you, when I am of better health that I may be able then to walk there more easily, myself?" He studied Paol. "And.. may I consider you a friend?"

He sighed. So many had died because he had not seen through that monster. And when he did, it was too late.

"I can, sure." He was about to ask what and who he ought to tell, but the younger man spoke again, once more with that strange formality. Paol smiled, "If you like."

After a pause, he asked, "What d'you want me to say to them? Or..." He suddenly was not sure that he had fully understood the question, "Did you mean for me to take the message later as well?"

"Later. Yes. Please do tell them later." The young Frenchman looked tired, saddened. His mind decided it was time he remembered the scene of the massacre in full. Each small detail, down to one man escaping but of that being the only one other than him. He had not escaped then, he'd traded the man's life to become a prisoner to that man. Then, later, he managed to escape alone. He shuddered. It was not from any physical pain.

He did not want to remember more, nor to think about his later unfortunate capture by the Portuguese. Had he deserved it for the men he could not have protected? He breathed in sharply to bring emotions under some control. "Later..days later." He whispered. "When I am better."

"Please stay." The request was abrupt, too much like a desperate request, and the man saying it held his head bowed, perhaps in shame.

"I can stay a bit," he reassured him hurriedly, "It's alright." He ought to say something more, something to change the subject, to comfort, but he hadn't the first idea what words to use. So he stood there in clumsy silence, his gaze dropping slowly until it rested on his boots.

"Thank you." The lad looked more reassured though, just as Paol, he did not know what to say but hated that now the silence seemed to drag and stretch and be most unpleasant. He watched Paol, quietly, averted his gaze then looked at him again to see him staring at his boots.

"...What.." He began and then was quiet again, mulling over what to say. Something completely different, something to distract himself and perhaps even Paol. "Where.." Then quiet again and then the first question resurfaced. "What are .. your plans for once the war ends? ...." a lame question, he knew.

"Goin' home," he replied automatically, relieved to have something to say. "Mebbe get a small piece o' land eventually. You got anythin' to go back to in Paris? A trade, like?"

"I believe the times have perhaps changed enough when I return, that the sort of trade I could have taken, will no longer be. But I see no loss in it. I would perhaps gain more in' learnin' myself one, if only I had the time. Perhaps, if I may manage to..survive till the end," This he was doubtful. "..and with some success, "again not something he believed would happen, if for no other reason, because he feared that his hearing after he was healed might be his final. He feared more than he had reason to. " ..I do not know. I will see. I hope for somethin' better." He smiled shifting a small bit.

"Have you found your sweetheart yet, here or at home?"

"Nah," he shook his head. "Nothin' like that." He supposed he had fancied one of the neighboring tenants' daughters back home, though, perhaps consequently, he had barely spoken ten words to her in all the years they had been acquainted. Hardly a sweetheart. He could not even recall her name now. With an apologetic shrug, he turned the question around. "How about you? D'you have anyone?"

"No. There have been some lovely faces I admit.. but it has not gone further than that." The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. "But we are both young.. and the ladies do like a man in such a coat." He indicated Paol's and would have is own, but for the fact that he did not have it. There was a feeling that terribly disturbed him, for the recipient of it was not the likes he would have though possible. Her kindness was in contrast to the cruelty she was able to commit. She made him believe many things. At one time that she was forced, that she had no choice, at another that he deserved it.

He shook his head and touched his temple. His mind must have gone for him to even consider it. He suffered, that was it. He suffered and now he did not know anymore because he should have not missed her and he did. "... Have you ever loved then? Even if not returned?" A strange question to ask, but until he was able to set his mind to rights, he could not ask a sensible question though he hoped Paol might do it for him.

It was not immediately clear to Paol how this question differed from the previous one. The answer, however, was still the same. "No," he replied, feeling his face growing warm before stumbling awkwardly through the expected response, "Do, uh -- have you?"

"I... Do not know. I think... I don't know." He admitted with a faint sigh. He though hard on it but the longer he thought of it the more it made him uncertain. As a young chap, had he? That sort of pup love probably occured, but he was too early involved with the 'military things'. Now, later... Well he could not call it love could he? He shook his head and then shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. " Then he was silent hoping that Paol might break the silence with something he would know better to answer. It pained him to lean as he did, but so it did hurt if he was lying down.. Or else standing or attempting to. The surgeon's concotion helped some.

Paol kicked absently at a tuft of grass as the silence dragged on. "What was Paris like?" he asked finally.

"When? When i was born? When I was young?" He smiled, looking as though some personal joke had been arroused by the question. "Though th answer might not vary that much." He added but gazed at Paol neveer the less as if challenging him to ask the correct question. It did bring some light and life into the man.