7th June, evening; A visit from Eris

Paol kept expecting the sous-lieutenant to balk. But if their progress was somewhat halting, it ultimately kept on in the right direction and before long they were standing beside the vehicle Montreuil had indicated.

Gingerly Paol reached over to tug a slipping fold of Leclerc's blanket back into place. Poor bastard must be freezing, he thought absently, shivering himself despite the warmth of the evening.

Montreuil arrived shortly thereafter, shadowed by two of his subalterns. "Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all."

"Yes sir."

Arguing the point did not figure anywhere in Jérémie's thought process. Leclerc was best left to Montreuil's care anyway. He left the sous-lieutenant to the surgeon and his two underlings without regret. In his view, having to content with the officer and his madness twice now was two times too many.

"If we never have to do that again..." he muttered as he turned to head back toward where he'd left his pack.

"Aye," Paol shook his head. He was still not entirely certain what 'that' had been; his perception of the whole affair had the bizarre, non sequitor quality of a dream.

"What's--what...happened to him?" he asked after several moments.

What indeed.

"He was... hit in the head. That last skirmish we had with the English." Jérémie rubbed wearily at his eyes. "He has not been himself since."

Paol shook his head slowly and tried to suppress another shiver. It did not occur to him to wonder how Jeremie knew this.

"At least..." He frowned; in the time it had taken to form the words, the rest of the thought had slipped away. His mind felt like a sieve. "I dunno," he finished lamely.

They were nearing the cook fires now, passing for the most part unremarked, at least until they reached those belonging to their own company.

"The hell happened to you?" Couture demanded, his brows arching in curious surprise as the firelight illuminated their faces.

It was best, probably, not to comment on Kerjean's interrupted statement. Easy enough to guess at his meaning anyway. In any event, Jérémie was perfectly happy to let the matter pass without further discussion.

If that was even possible. Really, he should not be surprised their absence and return should need to be questioned. Especially given the evening's other great excitement.

"Were the officers' tents saved?" Jérémie asked, choosing to answer Couture's query with one of his own.

"Saved?" Charcot asked, reeling forward with a black and white kitten in his arms. "Saved from what? Oh dammit." The kitten escaped his unsteady grasp and scrambled up onto his shoulders. "Where's she gone, my mitaine cat. She musta took my bottle."

Couture paused, his mouth open to reply, his train of thought temporarily derailed by Charcot's outburst. But after a quizzical glance at the other soldier, he continued, "Oh, aye. Near enough. Think they did more damage tryin' to put the fires out."

He was, however, not to be put off so easily. "So....?" he needled, "Where'd you get them scratches, then?"

He blinked at Charcot in baffled silence, then decided it was safer to ignore him. Couture's news was hardly surprising though. Privately, Jérémie wondered how much of the officers' belongings had mysteriously vanished during the firefighting efforts.

"It's hard to see in the dark," was his bland response. He resisted the urge to touch the lump above his eye where Leclerc had headbutted him. "Tripping over your own feet is easily done."

Couture rolled his eyes. "Aw, c'mon -- Navarre saw you get sent off after Leclerc. So.... spill. What happened?"

Oh for -

"We chased him. Then caught up. He's with the surgeon now." It was all Jérémie could not to sigh. Maybe they'd have been better off letting Leclerc run clear across Portugal.

"The surgeon?" Couture's brows shot up until they all but disappeared into his shaggy mop of hair. "Christ, you didn't hurt him, did you?" He seemed less alarmed, than intrigued by the possibility.

"He's just...not well," Paol answered, dropping heavily to the ground beside his pack.

A squawk of laughter escaped Couture. "Runs pretty damn fast for an invalid!"

"He means soft in the head," interjected Gauvin. "Like you."

In reply, Couture flung the remainder of his – nearly rock hard – biscuit at Gauvin's head. It missed and, almost faster than thought, was snatched up by young Bielieux, who crammed it in his mouth before either of the men could object.

This was certainly not a vein of conversation he cared to pursue, so he was relieved when distraction presented itself. Better off letting the others poke fun at Bielieux as the youngster tried futilely to chew his stolen piece of biscuit.

Jérémie gave in to temptation and gingerly touched his forehead. Yes, that was definitely going to bruise. Damn.

"Hey -- you little shite!" Couture blurted out, more amused than angry at the boy's reaction. Gauvin just laughed, and Bielieux looked disproportionately pleased with himself -- as much as is possible around an overlarge mouthful of stale biscuit. The question still hung in the air, but it was, for the moment, left there. Gauvin's warning had been clear enough, however indirect.

Paol gave Blanchard a questioning look; he had seen him touch his forehead, though he didn't dare say anything aloud.

He noticed Kerjean's glance but had no suitable glib explanation to offer. Were these others not around, he might be truthful, but...

A loud, drawn-out howl rent the air, silencing conversations all over the camp. It came from the surgeons' wagons, Jérémie thought, and he cringed. He knew who was making that noise.

The howl was cut abruptly short, fortunately, but the following silence was no comfort. Even when he was supposedly in safe hands, it seemed Leclerc had the ability to make things unpleasant.

Bielieux's eyes went wide. "Mmpf dat?"

"That," replied Gauvin wrily, "Would be Sous-Lieutenant Leclerc." The looks on Paol and Rosy's faces had been confirmation enough.

Couture let out an appreciative curse. "What d'you think they're doin' to him?"

Gauvin snorted. "I know what I'd be doin' to him. Vain dieu....what a noise."

This was not the sort of answer Couture was looking for and he turned to look from Blanchard to Kerjean. "Was he like that with you? Ravin' like?"

"He is not well," was all Jérémie cared to say.

Charcot was sitting on the ground cradling his kitten now. The howl had brought him back to sobriety, for the moment at least. "Is he dyin', Monsieur Leclerc?"

"Dunno," Paol's reply was barely audible. He had unrolled his greatcoat and now huddled under it next to the fire, hugging his left arm to his chest.

"Useless, the pair o' you," grumbled Couture.

"So run along and see for yourself then, why don't you?" Gauvin was as curious as any of the others, but he knew when to leave it alone. Most of the time. "Or are you scared o' the surgeon?"

"I ain't scared o' no sawbones!" Couture protested.

"So what are you sittin' here for?"

"Don't feel like walkin' over there, is all."

"Oh, aye," Gauvin laughed, "Been talkin' to Rousseau, have we?"

"Go to hell."

"I'm scared o' the sawbones," Charcot did not mind admitting. "Rather go to the horseleech than him."

Leclerc, dying? That was too much to hope for. Shrugging, Jérémie reached for his pack. He hadn't yet fed his kittens, who were probably not far removed from eating his spare shirt by now.

"Sawbones ain't s'bad," Paol mumbled, "Y' jus' don't pay no mind t' his shoutin', like. Jus' how he talks."

Gauvin peered at him, trying to parse out actual words from amid the jumble of sounds. Kerjean's accent always got thicker when he was tired, but now it was damn near impenetrable.

"Chris'sakes, Paulot," he laughed, "Do us all a favor and get some sleep."

"Mmmm," Charcot said in agreement, curling up on the ground with the kitten held to his chest. The kitten had other ideas, of course, and squirmed away to visit Blanchard instead, but drink and sleep quickly overcame Charcot.

"Sleep is something we should all do," Jérémie remarked blandly, crumbling a small piece of dried meat for the purring, impatient kittens to immediately pounce upon.