11th June, night: Retribution

"Let him go?" Rogerio asked incrediously. He had sat up, not yet ready to pull himself to his feet, but thinking of it. This was made clear, when he glanced at the entrance, at the men and weighed his options. He could not bolt alone. The man he had as his hostage at that moment, was perhaps his only way out.

Under him, Saint-Hilaire was gulping air in quick succession, looking panicked. Almost in contrast to that, he was quite unmoving, as if unwilling or unable to shift or change position in any way. He was in pain, but that could not have been it.

"Do you think me mad?" Rogerio's speech compromised of words spoken in Portuguese, but there was a French word in it too. "Up." He spoke as he shifted off of the sous-lieutenant, but his blade remaned dangerously against his neck and chin, promising a stab upwards through the soft skin, if there was inso much as hint of a wanted attack at his own person.

Saint-Hilaire moved dazedly. "Non..non.." He managed to utter, but only so quietly that only the closest could hear him. Rogerio took a firm hold of him now, pressing the man's back against his chest, keeping his body as his shield. An arm was under Etienne's, clutching diagonally over his chest. The other still held the blade, now pressed, but not piercing the skin.

"Tell them to move." He said sharply. "If you want him alive, you let us go free. When I am safe you can have him back."

Bastien motioned the soldiers to move out of the tent, but never took his eyes of the Portuguese.

"Let him go, Rogiero. Take me instead, if you think a hostage will help you, but let him go. You've done enough to him already."

His voice was still calm and reasonable, without any hint of emotion. It was an automaton talking.

"And risk that you fight me? He's weak enough that it won't matter if he does. I can't risk death because of you." Rogiero answered stiffly. It was true enough that the man that he held hostage just wanted to be let go and did nothing to anger the man behind him.

"Move out of the way. Let me pass. Allow me to escape, and you will have him back, and I promise, he won't be any worse than he is now."

"Why should I trust you? You lied before. And you risk death anyway. The soldiers will shoot you the moment you try to leave. I only want to make sure that at least I get killed for my mistake of bringing you here instead of Etienne."

"You lie. If I take him with me.. they will not shoot me." Rogerio spoke stiffly. "As they would not shoot you.. And when I am far enough.. they will not see me to shoot me.." He took a step back, and Saint-Hilaire quietly followed.

"You alone can come... unarmed. " He suggested after a few moments of tought. "With us... but if you try something.. he is dead."

"Orders are that no officer should be allowed to fall into the hands of your irregulars alive", Bastien stated.

He still seemed very calm, but faint tremors ran through his muscles from the effort it cost him to project this image.

"Put your weapon down. If you let him go now, I will say that you never had taken him hostage or tried to escape. The soldiers will back me. You have my word on it."

"You will kill me." Rogerio answered, not believing that he could get off so easily. "You hate me, because of what happened to him. You hate the lot of us.Can I really expect that you...keep your word?" Another step back.

"If you tell them you are escorting us.. nobody shoots me.. or you.. we all benefit."

Bastien snorted.

"They will shoot us. An escaping prisoner, a probably turned and broken sous and a pain-in-the-arse lieutenant? They will shoot without a second thought and be glad that three problems were solved at once, and without any uncomfortable questions."

He shrugged.

"Yes, I hate you. But I actually try to mediocre best to get Etienne out of this alive and cherish some tender hopes for my own survival as well. So I'll stick to exactly what I promised. And since I usually try to keep at least some standards... yes, you can expect me to keep my word."

"Turned?" Rogerio did not understand what Bastien meant by it. He understood broken well enough, but the first word startled him. He pulled the sous-lieutenant after him. " They left the tent now.. you are a bad liar , lieutenant. If they meant to kill us, they would have stayed here."

He inched towards the exit, slowly. "We'll risk it, then. I am not staying here. Not after this."

Bastien pushed himself upright to stand straighter, although his face was beginning to show a grey tinge, and blood was running slowly down his thigh now.

"If you put your weapon down before you leave this tent, we can still pretend the last half hour hadn't happened. Once you are outside, it's out of my hands. They left the tent because I told them to, but outside, the colonel will order them to fire and they will do it! So please let at least Saint-Hilaire go. You pride yourself in being better and less barbaric than we French are. Then be fair and let at least the one who made the mistake pay for it."

His voice had gone subtley louder, and was clearly understandable now to the young sous-lieutenant who crouched outside and relayed the conversation back to a colonel who made no efford to hide his silent, but fierce rage.

"I don't believe you... the moment I put this down, you will have me killed...no, tortured first, and then killed. " Rogerio spoke but considered the option of taking the other man. He was a lieutenant and now his injuries made him weaker, and thus more manageable.

If they might not hesitate to fire at a sous-lieutenant, surely they will be hesitant to kill a lieutenant. A greater offense than the first. "I'll take..."

"No..." Rogerio was surprised to hear the sous-lieutenant speak. "...You need a surgeon..." His eyes were on Bastien, pleadingly. "You can't.." He spoke, sounding withdrawn. "..not your fault..." He was still trembling, and his voice was halting, his breaths still rapid.

"...you.." Rogerio looked at Saint-Hilaire, pressing the blade just a bit closer to his skin, as if afraid the man would do something drastic. Still the injured man spoke. " ..Get it over with, already..." It left Rogerio somewhat bemused even as he inched with his captive closer to the entrance to the tent.

Bastien slowly came closer, his arms spread out to show his hands clearly.

"It's alright, Etienne!", he said gently, softly enough to be not heard outside. "Just let me do this. Please. I won't let you die again."

There was a strange mix of emotions in the last sentence, but under it all was a sternly supressed, but strong fear.

"No.. no it's not alright... I can't have you die.." Saint-Hilaire protested. "Not because of him..." He saw that Rogerio was torn. On one hand, he felt that his present captive would not be able to physically make it too far, but on the other hand, could he risk taking the lieutenant? Was it true that he would be killed, they both would be killed, if he walked out of that tent?

"..I just want you to release me...let me go free." He spoke harshly." I don't care for either of you."

Bastien smiled humourlessly at Etienne.

"You know I'm already dead, Etienne. The bullet just hasn't found me yet. I was living on borrowed time pretty much since I joined up."

He turned his eyes to Rogiero again, a solemn expression in them now.

"If you want to go free, then sit down, and hope that soon an exchange of hostages will take place. Believe me, that is your best chance, even though your side only very rarely leaves prisoners in a condition to give back."

"You live.. and that's all that matters." Saint-Hilaire spoke, quietly. " Come here, lieutenant." Rogerio said, his eyes narrowed on him. "I will take you. " He added, his decision made half way. He was still debating whether he would run with him or not. He did not feel like he could trust this man to have him unharmed until an exchange, which would never happen. But the time of day would have many soldiers outside.

"..One false move and I'll drive this through his head." He warned. "Come, slowly." He ignored protests from the man he already had under control.

As soon as Rogiero had made his decision, Bastien became very calm. He had made his own decision, and there was no indication that he had any doubts about it.

"Etienne, as soon as he lets you go, you will step back and not interfere, understood? That's an order.", he commanded. Then, hands raised, he slowly approached the Portuguese again.

Outside, the young sous-lieutenant and the older serjeant kneeling next to the tent looked at each other for a second, then the older man slowly and very carefully drew a long knife and crouched, ready to spring, while the young boy did his best to move silently away to where his colonel was waiting for his report.

Saint-Hilaire opened his mouth to protest then Prayon did the smart thing and told him it was an order and the sous-lieutenant looked angry, upset but very slowly he also nodded in response.

Rogiero moved behind Prayon quickly, and pushed the injured mean forward so that any thought or attempt to switch their positions by either of the men was halted by that.

"You'll tell them to hold their fire." Rogiero said stiffly. "Right when we walk out, you will order them to hold fire until I am safe ...and then I will let you go back. But only then." His sword pressed under Bastien's chin, settling itself firmly there. "Forward."

"..Bastien...." Saint-Hilaire looked pained, though there was more than just the physical discomfort. "Don't...."

Bastien smiled reassuringly, not resisting Rogiero's attempts to use him as cover.

"It's alright!", he whispered before nodding his agreement to Rogiero and moving before him out of the tent.

Outside, four soldiers stood, their muskets aimed at the men coming out; another was crouched next to the entrance.

But none of those shot.

The single, sharp shot that rang out as soon as the two men came out was from a pistol. It nicked Prayon's jaw on its way to its target, but the slight contact neither lessened its force nor its accuracy.

(lets hope that it posts this time. Anxiously runs around)

Saint-Hilaire only saw a splatter of blood, he heard a cry but did not know who had been shot and assumed the worst. He cried out a harsh. "Non!" Pushed himself forward, to see the Portuguese mean fall to the ground, clutching the wound at his shoulder or was it arm, trying to slow the blood that stained the fabric of his shirt. In truth Saint-Hilaire did not care which part of his body was hit, for he worried that Bastien had been struck and killed in the process.

"Bastien! Mon ami!" He saw Prayon still standing, and for a moment felt hopeful. He clutched at his arm, at his shoulder, saw blood come from his jaw, but.. while it looked grusome, it was merely blood and bone had not been shattered.

"Bastien!" His voice broke half way. "Are you...You ..." He bit at his lip. "Don't shoot...." No need to any more. He stood infront of the man, ignoring the curses and whimpers of the wounded Portuguese irregular. "..Lieutenant Prayon.." He managed in a quiet whisper.

The lieutenant was pale, nearly grey in the face now, and the strange calm and energy that had supported him before was rapidly draining away. The hand he placed on Etienne's shoulder to steady himself was sweaty and slightly shaking.

"I'm alright", he murmured before straightening to something close to attention.

Colonel Beuret slowly took his long-barrelled pistol down and handed it to the young sous-lieutenant next to him, then with measured steps approached the fallen man in front of the tent. Drawing his sword, he said conversationally to St.-Hilaire, pointedly ignoring Prayon for the moment:

"I think he's mad. Seldom brilliant, a pain in the ass most of the time, and the rest of the time utterly mad. Try to keep him from passing out before we have sorted this."

With the tip of his sword, he turned the Portuguese's face towards him and studied him for a long moment, contempt in his eyes. Then he withdrew his sword and turned to the sergeant, ordering in a cool voice: "Fernet, four men to escort him to my tent. I want him alive and unharmed there, understood? And have somebody stop him from bleeding to death. The rest may stand down."

Fernet acknowledged the order curtly; it was obvious from his rigid posture that he had hoped to vent some anger on the man, though. He called some soldiers over and got to work while the colonel turned back to the two officers. He hadn't spared more
than one glance for the wounded.

Prayon fidgeted ever so slightly under his colonel's cold glance. When he was sternly told to go into the tent and have the surgeon attend to him, he didn't look much happier. There wasn't much of an alternative, however. The colonel resolutely held the tent flap open and motioned Saint-Hilaire and the surgeon who was only just coming towards them through.

Rogerio had stared at the sword when it had touched his skin and he very willingly turned his head in the direction it insisted it to go. He expected to be run through at that very moment. He released a breath he did not remember to have been holding. He was hauled up, not too gently, but since, he was merely taken to the tent, as ordered even if the called men were quite as itchy to show their displeasure as their superior officers had been.

"Even so...I want him alive." Saint-Hilaire murmured when the Colonel described Bastien's character with 'mixed flattery'.

--

Saint-Hilaire was quick to fuss over Bastien, when he finally entered the tent, and pointed him to make himself comfortable on his bed, until the surgeon would give other instructions. Already he had brought forth a handkerchief to press it against the bleeding cut on Prayon's jaw.

"A fool. You're a fool." He whispered, but sounded worried that it was not yet over and that Bastien would, with his injuries, still perish. "Hold this." He spoke and began to remove his coat. He knew it would hurt, but the surgeon needed to get to the injured areas and if there was any fabric in the wounds, remove that.

Even as the surgeon told him that he would take over now, Saint-Hilaire did not move far. He observed his friend concerned.

+

Bastien perhaps sagged a bit more heavily onto the cot than he intended, but he managed, and didn't even black out when Etienne started to removethe already sticky cloth from his side or he had to move to allow him to pull the tight-fitting coat over his shoulders. Only the sucked-in cheeks and the sweat on his brow betrayed the additional discomfort.

---

The colonel had stepped into the tent as well, had for a moment studied the blood and tipped-over furniture, and then deliberately rightend a chair and sat down. When the surgeon arrived and immediatly started to fuss over Bastien (although after the first few seconds he looked up briefly and announced "He'll live!") and Etienne's services were no longer needed, Beuret pointed to the other end of the cot and motioned for Etienne to sit down.

"Were you hurt, too?", he asked in his direct style, although his sharp eyes had already picked out the thin red line just above the other man's shirtcollar.

Saint-Hilaire looked sullen when he had to leave Bastien's side, to take a seat elsewhere. He did so tenderly, but even then, a few glimpses escaped towards the lieutenant. He forced himself to look at Beuret, and listen.

"No..." He answered. He was bruised, battered and with a cut on his neck, but that, in his mind held zero comparison to what his friend had gone through, and his injuries that he sustained from the blade.

"I don't need any assistance and.. please allow me, that I should offer lieutenant Prayon, mine, after the surgeon has done with him." His back was stained with some blood from when he had two men land atop him. Still, it was nothing that could not heal, and he considered it not life threatening. But he feared for Bastien's life and well being, and that was clear in his eyes as his voice, even if his expression attempted to have some semblance of formality.

"What will happen to the prisoner?" He asked. He hoped that the colonel had not heard, or noticed his previous reactions.