6 June, evening: Horn and Ivory

St Laurent lay perfectly still. Everything was dark and strange and the horror of the dream still hung oppressively close. His arm throbbed fiercely, aggravated by whatever convulsive movement had pulled him awake. Where were the others? Where was he?

He made a weak attempt to sit up. There were shadowy, crumpled shapes on either side of him, but this was not his campfire. He did not even recall going to sleep. What in hell--

First a fragment of a memory and then everything at once came rushing back. The prisoners, Davout, the swamp, the ambush, Balincourt... St Laurent had to twist suddenly onto his side, retching into the grass.

No. It was the only coherent thought in his head. His lips formed the word, but what came out was little more than a faint, animal cry of pain.

He huddled on the ground, gasping as the convulsions subsided. Hot tears slid down his cheeks, soaking into the bandages which wrapped around his face. He had let it all happen.

"Caporal!" Marie-Eve exclaimed quietly. Someone had pointed her in the right direction to locate Saint-Laurent, but she had not expected to see him huddled up in such apparent agony. She knelt beside him and set down the bowl of soup, still warm but no longer hot.

St Laurent stiffened, hurriedly cuffing at his eyes, and looked up. "M-madame Bellot," he stammered. He was suddenly so ashamed he thought he would be sick all over again.

Marie-Eve was a quite shocked to realize that the corporal had been weeping. She suddenly wanted to hold him and comfort him like she might cradle her own little Remy-Jean, but of course the corporal was not little, nor her own. What to do? He would hate her for seeing him crying. But maybe after all it was only an effect of the injuries, and whatever medicine the surgeon may have given him. She decided to pretend like she had not noticed.

"It's so dark here in the shadows that I almost didn't see you!" she said lightly. "The lads thought you might like some of our soup, Margot and me. Would you?"

"Soup?" he repeated stupidly.

"Yes. Your lads... They helped us. Good fellows, your lads." Best not to say any more about the context of that situation. "And they said you'd hurt your jaw. Hard to eat meat when your whole mouth is aching, but some soup might work. Want to sit up?" She reached out tentatively to help him if he was willing.

His lads? St Laurent felt his throat constrict and struggled to pull himself together. He was behaving like a child and he needed to stop. Drawing in a breath, he tried to focus on what she was saying.

Sitting up – right. Using his good arm, he levered himself up from the ground, but it was a pitiful effort and he had to rely on Mme Bellot's help.

For some reason, this had not been what Marie-Eve expected. St. Laurent was rocky and difficult to navigate. If he was anything like Rémy, he would not want to talk about it at all, so it would be worse than useless to ask him questions. Wouldn't it? Was it better to keep up the cheerful pretense?

"I've got a little spoon here. I lost a tooth after Rémy-Jean came along. It came right out, but how my jaw ached!" She laughed a little and reached for the bowl to hand it to him. "Oh, your arm too, poor thing. I'll hold the bowl for you, and you can do the spoon yourself. Try it."

He felt oddly grateful for her chatter, as though it were a screen between them, something to hide behind.

The bandages wrapping under his chin were just loose enough to allow a spoon to pass his lips, though between the bandages on his fingers and being unable to use his dominant hand most of the soup ended up on him rather than in him, and after several less than successful attempts he let his hand drop into his lap.

Anxiety gripped him then. "Balincourt," he asked suddenly, "Have you seen him? Or Laramie? Or, or..." Who else had been hurt? Navarre? No. Foucheaux? Jesus, had Foucheaux been hit? St Laurent's head felt as though it were spinning.

"No," she answered warily. She had heard there had been injuries and fatalities, but she did not know the particulars. She hoped that Balincourt and Laramie were not among the latter, for Saint Laurent's sake as well as their own. "Would you like me to go and ask about them?" She gently took the spoon from his poor hand. Perhaps he should sip the broth from a cup.

Saint-Laurent nodded jerkily, not trusting his voice. It was taking what little strength he had to not let her see how close to panic he really was.

Marie-Eve nodded and rose to leave, setting the bowl of soup down beside him. The poor man seemed close to overflowing. It was no wonder, really. She just didn't know what to do to avoid causing the emotional spill.

"I'll be back," she said simply, and then went off to find someone who might know. She was not even sure who to ask, but she may as well start with the surgeon since he was close by. One of the assistants pointed her in the right direction to find Montreuil.

"I don't pay you to gawp," Montreuil snapped, taking the shadow which fell across him for one of his assistants.

"No, you don't," the shadow answered.

The surgeon glanced up, irritated, then bent his attention once more over his work. "Something I can do for you, Madame?"

"Caporal Saint Laurent wants to know about two of his men, Laramie and Balincourt. I didn't know if they were injured, or..." She held up her hands and shrugged. "I told him I'd find out what I could."

"Laramie and Balincourt..." Montreuil frowned. He closed his eyes, steepling his bloody fingers against the bridge of his nose as he mentally cross-referenced the names. "Ah, of course. They're not dead, if that's what you mean."

She let out a sigh. "Well that's good, anyway. Were they injured? He seemed very worried about them. I've never seen him so upset." Not that she knew the corporal well. She had never before had much opportunity to see him upset at all.

Montreuil regarded her dubiously for a moment, wiping his hands on his apron. "They were wounded, yes," he replied, rising. "They are resting now and the caporal would do well to follow their example."

Why was he telling her? It was not like St. Laurent took his orders from her. And it wasn't as if she was preventing him from resting. Or was she? Damn. He would have been asleep by now if she had not come with her soup. The surgeon would make sure he did not go hungry.

"I'll tell him. Thank you," she said quietly and turned to leave.

Saint-Laurent lay on his back, motionless save for the uneven rise and fall of his chest. At the soft sound of approaching footsteps, however, he seemed to stir, tensing visibly. He turned his head; it was Bellot's wife, but he was unable to read any answer in her face.

"They're resting," Marie-Eve said quickly, seeing that he was awake. "Monsieur Montreuil said they're both doing well and they're resting." Well, that was not exactly what he had said, but he had said they weren't dead, and that was close enough to doing well for the moment. "You should rest too."

He had not made much progress on the soup, but it was a shame to waste it. She should have asked the surgeon if he had one of those special cups for invalids. She would just leave St Laurent the bowl of broth to finish later if he wanted it.

Saint-Laurent's eyes sagged closed. When he opened them again his gaze was bleary and unfocused. "Thank you," he said; then, lowering his eyes, he added in a smaller, unsteady voice, "I'm sorry."

She nearly asked him "What for?" but decided that he might not even know, or if he did, he probably did not want to put it into words, whatever it was he was ashamed of.

"It's all right," she answered instead. "Good night, caporal."

Saint-Laurent said nothing, afraid of what would come out if he did. He could hardly ask her to stay and he dared not meet her eyes again for fear of betraying himself, but he did not want to be left alone. Like a small child afraid of the dark, some part of his mind clung to the hope that it would be alright as long as there was someone else there.