28th July, Les champs de feu

There was silence for a while; there didn't seem to be anything more to say, and as the minutes passed, Paol let his eyes drift shut. The minutes, however, dragged into hours and still sleep would not come, however fervently he might wish for it. He could not make himself relax, nor could he still his thoughts, and the pain, if anything, had gotten worse. The onset of darkness had brought some slight respite from the heat, at least, and dampened the noises of the day. It was almost quiet and blessedly dark.

He did not hear the figure approaching, or rather he heard the sounds, but his tired mind did not put them together until the shadow was hanging over him, seemingly out of nowhere. He started then, struggling to push himself up, his hand closing around a non-existent weapon.

"Hush! It's alright." Surprise and confusion checked him far more effectively than any verbal command. It was a woman's voice, sharp, but hardly more than a whisper. Stupid with fatigue, Paol could do little more than stare at her. Was he dreaming? God, he hoped so, if only because it meant he was finally asleep.

A slight noise and movement had wakened Charcot, though he was not at first certain that he was awake at all. But yes, he remembered with disappointment, he was still blind. And he was a prisoner of the British. Was it actually night this time though? It was quiet, and he could hear ordinary night noises of camp.

But there was a foreign voice close by, and he sat up immediately. "Who's there? Paol, Paol, wake up!" He shook the shoulders of someone that he assumed was Kerjean, but really anyone would do if this was a stealthy Spanish band of murderers.

"I'm here," he answered quickly, keeping his voice low, "It's alright." At least he hoped it was. "We got a visitor, is all."

"Who is it?" he asked, his fear switching quickly to eagerness. It had sounded like a woman's voice. "Is it a woman? She got any water? Ask her if she's got water."

Roux grumbled as the noise roused him.

"'S going on?" he asked, still half-asleep. "We under attack?"

There was a soft, low chuckle. "Ah, le rouquin. Remember me, love?"

"Who's that?" Charcot whispered, turning his head as if it might help him to see.

"A friend," Paol said simply.

"Ask her for water! Oua-terre!"

Roux sat up sharply, and looked at their visitor.

"You!" he said, and then flushed. That was not the most polite greeting ever. "Euhh. That is. Hello."

"I don't know how to ask for water," he hissed at Charcot in an undertone. "Do you?"

"It's oua-terre!" he repeated.

"Water, yes," she replied in French, her voice edged with laughter, "Patience, little one." There was a faint rustling and she produced a canteen which she handed to Roux. "Fair is fair, no?" she grinned. "Now... Alain, I know. And the dark one. But not the chatterbox....?"

"You speak French! Roux, she speaks French. Who is she?"

"Euh," Roux said, fumbling with the canteen. "That's Charcot. He does talk a bit, but. Well. Thank you. For the water, I mean."

He took a long sip, then grabbed Charcot's hands to give him the water.

"Here, drink," he muttered. "And, yes, she speaks French. I heard. But she's English. I think?"

He directed the last question at Janet. He'd assumed she was English the first time they'd met - and gotten quite a few bruises on her behalf - but now he was not as sure.

Charcot wrapped his hands eagerly around the canteen and gulped greedy mouthfuls of water. But he had enough self control to pass the canteen back, in spite of his unsatisfied thirst. Roux and Kerjean would need some as well. "Ah, thank you, missus," he said, using the English word for her benefit.

Janet put a hand to her mouth, trying to smother her laughter before she drew any unwanted attention. "Yes, love, I'm English. And there's no need to thank me," she added more gently.

Smiling at the young one, Charcot's use of the English word, she accepted the canteen, "Quite the young galant. And you--" She continued, passing it to the tall one, "Go on, it's alright. Now... I think yours is the only name I do not know...?"

There was a pause and then quietly, "Paol -- Kerjean, mamzelle."

"Janet."

"Jeanette," he repeated.

Grinning, she took the canteen back and returned it to Alain.

"Merci," Roux said. He grinned back at her, and was glad it was too dark for her to see how badly he was blushing. He took another long drink of water, then hesitated. "You're not going to get in trouble for this?"

Just for a moment her expression softened, but quickly brightened into mischief. "Don't you worry about that. You might not believe it, but I'm rather better at getting out of trouble with these lads than I was with yours."

Roux was startled into a laugh.

"I don't doubt it," he said.

"You were a prisoner?" Charcot asked with interest. "I mean - you were with... us? Our army, when...?" He trailed off, not knowing how to describe the situation of those unlucky women that the French had captured.

"Yes. She was there with your flower-mouse," Roux said. Which reminded him. He looked back to Janet. "Was your friend alright?"

Now it was Janet's turn to laugh in surprise. "Flower-mouse?"

"Euh, well," Roux stared at Janet, embarrassed. "It's what Charcot calls your friend. The little one. Since she's timid like a mouse."

"She knows her?" Charcot gasped.

Janet pursed her lips, trying desperately not to laugh again. Poor Polly! "I see," she said with feigned seriousness. "Yes, I know her, and yes, she's alright. Thanks to Alain. I heard she had a bit of trouble with a lad later on, but nothing serious."