4th June: Visitations

"..I don't know..They may have their contacts in with the British...and might.."He hesitated this time. Without warning and thought he had then pushed himself up, thinking that his legs could support the sudden movement and have him move upright. But while one leg could have done so without the burnt skin tight on his back, his injured leg buckled under the weight.

He hated the Portuguese for what they had done to him, but his mind had not yet been able to wrap around another idea which would have been understandable after what he had gone through. Not acceptable, but not surprising either.

"Vierge! Easy—" Paol reached for the boy's shoulders, trying to hold him still and steady, "Easy. You're alright. Sir!" he called over his shoulder, hoping to God that Montreuil hadn't gone off out of earshot.

"What the hell's going on?" Montreuil snapped, shoving the bigger man roughly aside and climbing into the wagon.

"It were my fault, sir. He asked about the Portuguese prisoners an' I didn't think—"

"Clearly," the surgeon cut him off acidly. There would be torn stitches, no doubt, he thought grimly, pulling away the blanket that still clung in part to the boy's body, and God only knew what this sudden exertion had done to the lad's back.

Saint-Hilaire's breathing came in shallow, fast gulps of air. If not for the sudden, near blinding pain, he would have protested at calling the surgeon. He would have also protested at the casting of blame knowing, or supposing that such could disallow him receiving visits from Paol or even at all.

But at the moment his mind wheeled back against the onslaught of sudden pain his stupidity had caused, and he trembled, whimpering. He grit his teeth trying to still the tremors and lift the haze from his mind, to be able to speak coherently.

All Portuguese's fault. Everything, but god did it hurt. "Sir.." He mouthed, unsure whether he spoke or it was all in his mind. "Please, he help..." he choked on the word. "helped me..not caused this. Portuguese...them... them!" And he had to breathe in sharply again, stifling a groan of pain. He did not notice that he no longer had a blanket shielding him. Perhaps at the moment, there were other more important things his mind wished to concentrate on, than that. Or could concentrate on, if that.

"Calm yourself, monsieur," Montreuil reproved sternly, proceeding to a more thorough examination of the damage the lad had done.

"Sir--"

Montreuil cut the other soldier short with a look, "That will be all, Monsieur Kerjean."

"Let him stay.."The lad was persistent though he was quite unable to do anything but grit his teeth in pain. He cursed his body and he cursed the Portuguese and for a moment he thought of cursing his luck and the war itself for bringing them in such an inhospitable place where the partisans ruled the woods and their minds were mad. He knew some atrocities came from his own side, but he could not say who started it, and thought the Portuguese and the Spanish were first.

He breathed in sharply again wishing the pain would stop or dull. He tried to shift, get up again, move, thinking that might ease it and felt quite restricted in the wagon where the three men were. He was fortunate however, as the wagon initiated no bad memories. He had been left tied to a tree outside under the elements, being in a closed area therefor did not fill him with anything but the sense of being cornered.

"No. You need to rest. Monsieur Kerjean may come back at another time. If," his voice sharpened as the lad attempted to move, "however, you persist in struggling and undoing all my work, I will not permit even that. Do you understand?"

Saint-Hilaire stopped his struggles as quickly as he heard warning of what they might cause the surgeon to do. With a very faint nod he indicated that he understood the threat and that he would abide by it.

"I...do." He whispered, his voice broken with pain. "..won't struggle." He looked pleadingly at Paol as if to say that he did wish him to come and that he did not feel him responsible, and was grateful that he had visited him at this time. He breathed in sharply again, dropping his gaze, his eye squinted shut tight.

Following the lad's gaze, Montrueil noted with distaste that Kerjean was still there. He scowled.

"Sorry, sir," the soldat mumbled wretchedly and turned to go.

That was better. The surgeon returned his attention to the patient, deftly removing the shoulder dressing and checking the condition of the stitches beneath.

Saint-Hilaire decided that he did not like the surgeon. The man might only have been doing his job, but right now it was painful and he was sending a friend away. He grit his teeth, frowning. Perhaps if he had not looked in the man's direction the surgeon would not have noticed him still being there.

"...Sir." He whispered quietly, and refrained from moving unless instructed to shift for a better access to his injuries. He did not look, but wondered if his wounds have been reopened. "...bad?" He tried not to whimper, but miserably failed.

He decided one thing. Later, once the surgeon was gone, once he was certain that he was gone, he would try to get up again. He needed to get out of the wagon to which he was felt too bound. He wanted to see the camp, for one. He just wanted to go out and prove to himself that he would be able to move again, quite as before. Of course it was not the best idea, when still healing, but his mind was not exactly sound with its wants. He looked at the surgeon and waited for him to respond in some fashion or, for him to leave him.