28th July, Les champs de feu

Paol sighed, shifting his arm to wrap around Charcot's shoulders. "You're alright," he said wearily, his voice little more than a croak. He didn't know why he said it; it wasn't as though it did Charcot any good, but to say nothing seemed far worse.

Charcot gasped back a quiet sob. "Paol?" No, it was too much to even hope for. His hearing couldn't be trusted yet.

Paol let out a breath that was somewhere between a curse and a prayer. "You--you can hear me?"

He cried out and turned his head toward the sound. "Paol, what's happening? Help me!"

Thank Christ. "We been captured," he said, his voice calm, but careful, "By the English."

"The English?" he repeated desperately. "Are you sure? Paol, I can't see anything! Help me! Is that you?" There was an arm around his shoulder, and he turned his face to where he presumed its owner was. "I couldn't hear anything. I don't know what's happening. Untie me, help me Paol!"

"Easy..." he soothed, "You're alright. It's the English, I swear. The grasshoppers. Green coats an' all. But I can't untie you, alright? Not yet. Maybe when we get where we're goin'."

"Please, please! I can't...! Please, help me! Paol!" He was trembling now as if he were cold, trembling from head to toe in spite of the heat. The riflemen gave Kerjean impatient glares.

Paol felt the tip of a bayonet press into his back. He took a step forward, pulling Charcot with him. "Please, mate, we got to--" But the younger soldier was shaking, his eyes unseeing, still wide and terrified, all sickeningly familiar. Paol remembered what that felt like; it was not something easily forgot. And he also remembered that no amount of threatening or rationale could make it stop. He reached down, taking Charcot's hands and slowly, but deliberately began to untie the bonds.

 The Englishmen did not like that at all. There was shouting, and Paol's arm was yanked away. Paol stopped. There was no defiance in his face, just a quiet pleading as he looked at the one who seemed to be the leader of the small band. The man returned his gaze; beneath the anger, he looked nearly as exhausted as Paol felt. After some moments, he drew a knife -- Paol's knife -- from his belt and advanced on them, checking as he saw the fear gather in Paol's face and nodded towards Charcot's hands. He grabbed them roughly, sawing through the cloth bands with several rough tugs.

Charcot felt his hands fall free, and he sobbed a sigh of relief. He turned immediately and searched for Paol, holding out his arms to find him. "Paol?" He found his shoulders, and then he embraced him with the most fervent gratitude he had ever felt in his life. "Thank you, thank you! Thank you!"

Paol returned the embrace, holding him tightly for a moment, but only for a moment, before pulling away, half away, one arm still around Charcot's slim shoulders. "C'mon," he coaxed him forward. He didn't think the riflemen's sorely tried patience would hold much longer.

He clutched the side of Kerjean's coat, taking comfort in being able to hold something in his hand as he walked. His sobbing was beginning to wane, and he realized it felt as if he had been crying for a very long time. He had no idea how much time had passed in this nightmare.

"What happened?"

Paol was silent a moment, thinking, trying to remember without really remembering. Sifting the events from their contexts. It felt a bit like trying to walk on very thin ice.

"We lost the battle. I think. You'd got pinned under a horse. And I found you. And then this lot found us." There was a pause and then, quietly, "I'm sorry."

Charcot's eyes widened. "Yes, I was pinned under a horse!" How did Paol know that? "You saw me? Why didn't you help me?" His tone was not accusatory but simply perplexed. But perhaps Kerjean had been prevented from helping him. "Had you already been caught?"

"I...did," Paol replied awkwardly, "Help, I mean."

"You did?" Charcot's mind was already reeling, and he could barely process the thought. "I couldn't... I couldn't see or hear anything. I couldn't find anyone. I thought..." He shuddered at the memory of his terrible imaginings. "You were there?"

"Yes." I'm sorry, he almost said again, I didn't know what to do. Then he realized how pathetically selfish that would be and closed his mouth.

"You found me?" He struggled to piece together the events of the ordeal. Kerjean had helped to free him from the horse. And there had been that wall of heat where a man grabbed his arm. The man who had wrapped his arms around him. The bastard who had seemingly tricked him into capture and a beating. "You helped me?" His questions groped forward blindly, tentatively. "Was there a fire?"

"A bit of the grass caught fire, that's all." Suddenly, perversely, he found himself envying Charcot's blindness.

"And you - was it you pulling me away from the fire?" Overwhelming gratitude came flooding up once again, and tears. "I'm so - thank you. Thank you, I'm so sorry! Thank you Paol! I'm sorry!" He stopped walking once again as he reached out to cling to his rescuer.

"No, Charcot--You aint--" he tried to pull him away, tried to keep moving, tried to be gentle, sucking in a sharp breath as clinging hands tugged at the scorched fabric of his sleeve. "You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for," he finished, strain finally creeping into his voice. "Please. And you ain't got nothin' to thank me for neither."

"I'm sorry," he said again, relinquishing his grip and walking on, dazed. He could hear the English fellows giving them impatient orders, but they were also talking among themselves, or shouting to other English nearby. Their primary focus did not seem to be on the two French prisoners, and that was good. It meant getting shot was not imminent. "Maybe you would've escaped."

Then he registered the sound of Kerjean's wincing breath. "Are you hurt? Did I hurt you? I thought you were someone trying to kill me!"

"Me? I couldn't escape from a..." From a what? What did one easily escape from? Where was he even going with this? "I dunno. But this isn't down to you." There were more soldiers around them now. More Greenjackets, and some in red coats as well. They were well and truly lost now.

"No," he said, ignoring the sudden, familiar tightening in his chest, "You didn't hurt me. But.. you ain't hurt, are you?" He realized he'd never asked, he'd simply assumed. "I mean, other than a bellyfull of brass?"

Charcot tried to swallow a lump in his throat. "I can't see anything." Of course he was bruised and aching all over, but the blindness was worst of all. And yet, he felt no pain in his eyes. What if they had been gouged out? They wouldn't feel pain then, would they? Because they'd be gone. But he could rub his eyes and still feel them there. "What's wrong with my eyes? Can you see them? Tell me." No matter how horrific they might look, he needed to know.

Paol grimaced. It had been a stupid, thoughtless question.

"They...don't look any different. Your face don't even look hurt." Dirty, bruised, scratched perhaps, but nothing that suggested a real injury. He didn't understand it.