28th July, Les champs de feu

"Maybe... maybe they'll come back?" he suggested, but with doubt in his voice. "I couldn't hear anything and then that came back. Maybe my eyes will come back too? You think?"

"Aye, I do," he said firmly, "They ain't hurt, right? So they've got to get better."  In the back of his mind he could hear Montreuil's acerbic commentary, You're a physician now, are you? "You probably just need to rest." Your job is to put bits of lead and steel into people. My job is to take them out. Don't tempt me to mix them up. He started to smile, faintly and only then realized his mistake and thrust the memory away, silencing the voice, burying it, because he was never going to hear it again and he could not think about that now. Not with Charcot like this.

"I hope you're right." He was about to say more on the matter, but by now he could hear more and more foreign voices moving around them, horses too. "Where are they taking us? Are they still English? They won't give us to the Spanish, will they?"

"Still English. We're in their camp now, I think. We'll be able to rest soon." He tried to sound hopeful. "No, they wouldn't turn us over to the Spanish. Bellot's wife's got captured by the English, remember?" He was grasping at straws now. "And she ended up alright. She said they were kind to her."

"Oh," he answered, clinging to that one word, rest. If Kerjean said they would be able to rest, then it would be true. And if Madame Bellot said they were kind, then they would be kind. "Thank God. Do you think they'll give us some water?”

"Aye, once we stop." He had the uneasy feeling that he was simply digging himself -- and Charcot with him -- a hole. But what else could he say?

Up ahead he thought that he caught a glimpse of blue and red. Uniforms, French uniforms, he saw as they drew closer. Other prisoners.

The exchange took a matter of moments and, after prodding them in among the other prisoners, their escort withdrew. For a moment Paol simply stood there, torn between hope and dread, searching the ragged forms who sat or sprawled on the ground around him. Exhausted, sullen faces stared back at him; some were from his own regiment; none were familiar.

Feeling dazed, he sank slowly to the ground, tugging Charcot after him. "You can rest now."

Rest. Charcot did not need to be told twice. He knelt to the ground, feeling his way to a clear space, and then curled into a ball, still cradling the ache where the rifle butt had hit him.

He was lucky it had only been the butt of the rifle, and not a ball. If the circumstances had been reversed, and if he had had a prisoner who fought back like a madman, well...

"They didn't shoot me," he said quietly.

Letting one hand rest on Charcot's arm, Paol shut his eyes. "No, it's alright now." 

Really, they had shown remarkable forbearance under the circumstances. He closed his own eyes, though it made little difference whether they were opened or closed. So Paol had been the man with the pack who had pushed Charcot behind him. And had grabbed his shoulder? The riflemen must have been there then. Paol must have seen them. Charcot's mind was growing sluggish.

"You tried to protect me."

Paol's voice was gentle, but little more than a rasp, "Go to sleep, Dominic."

That was easier said than done. He was exhausted, of course, but his mind was still so very confused. "Paol? Did you stop them shooting me?"

"I....don't know." He'd reacted, that was all; the rest was a jumble of fear and pain.

Of course he had. That was the only explanation for why they hadn't killed him on the spot. He squeezed the hand that was resting on his arm. "Thank you Paol." It was heartfelt but quiet. He closed his eyes once again, but they flew open a moment later with a new thought. "Did Couture get away?"

Couture? A fragment of a memory, Jean-Michel falling, but that was all. Wounded or dead or ground beneath their own feet as they retreated or.... again the screams from the fires echoed inside his skull. Sweet Christ, he didn't know. 

"Yes," he lied, instead, "I think so. The last time I saw him."

Charcot relaxed then. "Good. He owes me money." And that thought made smile as he closed his eyes once more.

Charcot's breathing had slipped into a slow, steady rhythm, asleep. Paol was alone, and the despair and loss he had been fighting back at last closed in.

It was over. Everything he knew, everything he'd learned to accept. Rosy, Gauvin, Mathilde, Roux, Foucheaux, Marie-Eve, Margot, Montreuil.... the closest to a family he could ever hope to have and now they were gone. All the terror and grief of nine years ago, the loss of his family, an enemy army, a language he didn't understand, it was all happening again. The tightness in his chest doubled, sharpening into a deep, radiating pain. He gasped, curling forward over his knees, forcing each shuddering breath in and out, balling his hands into fists to try to stop them shaking. Please, God, not again.

"Son?" Sgt Duval paused in his rounds -- rounds? it was little more than a charade, he knew; his rank held no real power anymore, nor had he power even to requisition aid, but even the facade of order was better than none at all -- dropping to the ground beside one of the new arrivals. At first he'd thought the man was crying, but he appeared to be in the middle of some kind of fit.

"Hey--" he placed a hand on the man's shoulder, half starting himself, so violently did the other fellow flinch away. "Easy, lad..." He could feel each shuddering convulsion as the man fought to moderate his breathing, the laboured gasps several times shattering into a staccatto of short, hysterical breaths as his control slipped.

There was a touch on his shoulder, but in his disoriented distress, he imagined it was his old sergeant, and the voice in his ear and the snarling in his head were no longer distinguishable.

If he was aware of Duval's continued presence, it was as through a fog, distant and unreal, as if his senses had been swallowed in the choking tide of panic. And in its wake: terror, grief, confusion, pain. Hatred? Memories he had carefully buried. All rushing out of the darkness. He felt as though he would burst. He wanted to scream, to pour everything inside of him into one single sound.

Charcot awoke, his mind immediately alert. Something was happening. He sat up and reached for Kerjean. He found his shuddering shoulders.

"Paol? What is it? Paol, what's wrong? What's happened?" He pulled his friend closer and held him, feeling the violent tremors and hearing his gasping breath. There had been another man nearby, a Frenchman. Charcot reached his hand out for him. "Help! What's wrong with him? Someone help!"

"Leave him be. He's alright, just give him a minute," Duval assured him calmly. "What's your name, son?"

"Me?" Charcot could not tell which one of them the man was addressing. "I'm Soldat Charcot and he's Kerjean, Paol Kerjean. What's wrong with him? I can't see anything!" He did not relinquish his hold on Kerjean.

Charcot? The voices around him were finally beginning to register. But that couldn't be right -- Charcot was a sleep. He was sure he'd been asleep. Some one was holding him and he pulled away sharply, straightening.

It was Charcot.

"I'm fine, it's fine," he choked out, horrified with himself. He could feel the pain in his chest fading and his breathing beginning to ease; his head too was growing clearer, and with it the full realization of what he had just done. God help him...

"What happened, Paol? What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Kerjean had pulled away from his grasp, but Charcot reached out for him again. He felt helpless and isolated, as if he were the only person in this dark vacant world. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded of the other voice.

"Not hurt. I'm fine. It just -- it happens sometimes." He halfheartedly pulled his arm away from Charcot; he was so tired. "It's fine."

Charcot stared in agony, trying to force his eyes to see something. He scrubbed his hands across his face. "What do I do? What can I do? I can yell for a surgeon?"