4th August, early morning; All is not well

The house was eerily quiet. It was a marked contrast to the rattling of wheels and the mostly-hushed clash of voices outside. Dawn was breaking and judging by the noise from the street, something was doing. The other two were soundly asleep, Bright saw, which was just as well. He was in no mood to deal with either of them if he could avoid it. Sleep had left him an hour ago, he guessed. Ever since, he had lain quietly and listened to the sounds of movement through the half-open window.

His curiosity - and not a little suspicion - got the better of him after a while and he got out of bed to stand near the window. There was not much to be seen from there, however. He'd be better served to go downstairs. Even though this would be to literally take his life into his hands - but of course he was a doomed man either way, wasn't he, so what did it matter? Kerjean was slumped on the end of the second bed instead of by the door, which meant slipping out of the little room was easily managed. Good thing Bright had removed his shoes before going to sleep the night before.

He padded soundlessly down the stairs, only to pause at the bottom to listen for any sign of those two grasshoppers. There was nothing. No sound or sight of either one. Did that mean they weren't here? Or were they simply lodged in another room in the house? Not that it mattered, really. So long as he didn't run into either one. He scratched absently at the stitches underneath his waistcoat as he made his way cautiously toward what he remembered to be the front of the house. There was a window near the main door and he edged around this so he could see the street.

There were Spanish soldiers out there, in some number. It looked like they were forming for a parade or something. What the devil was that about, then?

[ooc]If you need me to back this up at all, just ignore what you like and I'll edit when I get back[/ooc]


Paol frowned, his gaze which had been fixed blindly on the floor in front of him slowly focusing. Something was wrong. The room seemed inexplicably lighter than it had a moment before. He raised his head. Near darkness had indeed been replaced by the grey of early morning. And Bright's bed was empty.

No. No. He was on his feet then, before the door, wrenching it open and stumbling into the hallway. He'd been awake the whole time. How could Bright have got past? He'd been awake. He was sure he'd been awake. But then how-- The door at the end of the hallway, where the greenjackets should have been was open and the room was empty. No.

He took the corner, thudding down the stairs. Even if he had fallen asleep, he'd have heard if they'd come to take Bright away. He'd have heard them. He'd have--

He tried to stop at the bottom of the stairs, his momentum carrying him several steps into the silent and empty kitchen. There was no sign of the riflemen or of Bright. He started towards the door, then checked, turning back in an unsteady half circle. They were gone.

If he'd stayed in front of the door, this would never have happened. If he'd only -- Christ! There was a thud and, looking down, he noticed with a detached sort of surprise that there was blood welling across his knuckles.

His first thought was to venture outside and investigate but he was quick to realise the folly in that. The Spanish might be useless stupid cowards, but they knew the difference between a French uniform and a British one. The British did not wear waistcoats and Bright was quick to strip his off and dump it carelessly on the floor before padding toward the door.

It was somewhat improper to be out-of-doors wearing only a pair of trousers, but he was banking on the obvious wound under his left arm being a suitable excuse to be barechested. Just as long as none of these fools thought to stop him and ask any questions.

"Hey," he called in English to a Spaniard who looked like an officer. "Sir. The devil's all this about? You ain't leavin' us?"

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Spaniard only glared at him and made no reply. Well sod you too, thought Bright. He didn't dare go too far, lest an actual British officer spot him, but he walked far enough from the house to better see down the street. There were wagons and carts mustering some ways down and men were swarming all around them, apparently loading them up. This wasn't good.

"Shit," Bright muttered in English. The bastards were leaving. He'd have to tell the other two. For all the good it would do. He turned back for the house. The lesson here was all too simple: never trust a God-damned Spaniard.

"Paol?" Charcot was making his way down the stairs, feeling his way step by step. He had awakened feeling rested, peaceful, content. He only vaguely remembered the night before as if it had been only a dream. But waking to find that he was alone in the room, he began to have fearful doubts. Keep calm, breathe, he told himself, resisting the urge to run. "Paol, Bright? Is anyone here?" At this point, he would settle for the women or even one of those riflemen. He did not want to be alone in a dark, silent world again.

Hell. Paol looked up with something akin to alarm. What was he supposed to tell Charcot? He'd think this was his own fault. What if it sent him over the edge again?

"Down here," he called, but his steps carried him towards the door rather than the foot of the stairs. If it could buy him even a moment of time... What could he do? What was he supposed to do?

On the floor near the door something which had once been white lay in a shallow heap. He picked it up; it was a waistcoat. Bright's, it had to be. But why was it here? Unless it had something to do with the greenjackets and the scars on Bright's back. Shit.

He started back towards the stairs. "Right here."

"What are you doing downstairs?" Charcot asked, slowly making his way down, his hands brushing the wall. "I didn't think they'd let us out of the room, but - " Obviously that was not the case, since Paol and Bright had both been let out. Unless they had been forced out. He paused on the last stair. "Are the riflemen there?"

"No," Paol replied, letting the first question go unanswered, "They're not here. I think the women might be gone as well."

"Oh," he said wonderingly. He found his way to the bottom of the stairs and simply stood there on the floor, feeling suddenly as if he were standing on the edge of a deep chasm. The wall at his hand ended here. He could not remember anything about the house apart from the stairs and his little room above. He was afraid to move, and ashamed to be afraid, so he sat on the stair.

"Where'd they go?"

"Dunno," he said, as casually as he could. "Reckon they'll be back. Might as well get out of that room for a bit though, aye?"

There was a knife on the table and he picked it up, more to focus his thoughts than anything else. There was something familiar about it. More than familiar, he realized upon closer inspection. It was his own. What the devil?

It was a great relief to re-enter the house. Almost too great. His return journey had been interrupted by a British officer who had demanded to know Bright's name, regiment, and purpose. Lying had been in order, of course, but the encounter had served to speed him along back to the house's comparative safety.

"Jesus wept," he muttered once he was on the right side of the door. Even the brush with disaster took a second seat to what he'd seen. The Spanish were leaving. Leaving. It defied crediting.

"Where's Bright?"

Paol was silent a moment, fumbling anxiously for some excuse, but it was hopeless. "I don't know."

"He's gone?" It had not even occurred to Charcot that Bright would not be with Paol. His shoulders slumped as the realization came all at once. The riflemen had taken Bright away somewhere for a trial or immediate execution or whatever process the English used, but he was gone. His fate was sealed. "They took him away. Oh, Paol..."

How could he say that he was sorry? He had snatched and thrown away the life of a man that Paol had tried to protect. He wrapped his arms around his knees and hid his face. Nothing he could say or do would ever, ever make that right.

There were voices coming from the back of the house. Familiar voices, to be sure, but Bright was still instantly suspicious. Why were the other two awake and out of the room? Except that was a stupid question. If he was out, why could they not be?

Suddenly, he was glad for being barefoot, as it meant making a soundless approach. He could make out the voices but not what was being said. For that, he needed to get a bit closer.

"Don't," Paol tried to cut him off. "You don't know that. And even if-- Whatever the hell is going on, it ain't your fault."

"You always say that," he answered, his voice dull and heavy. "But you know it's my fault. I don't know why he did it. But you - I'm sorry, Paol." He hugged his knees tighter to press against his chest. He felt heartsick, as if his heart was truly nauseated and would vomit itself out through his mouth. He felt it in his entire body: his throat, his stomach, even down to his front teeth. He had caused the death of a man whom he should have protected, a man who had sacrificed himself to save Charcot's life. And what was even worse, he had broken the heart of the best man that he had ever known. He covered his face with his hands.

"No, I--" He bit back the rest of the words, struggling to keep his emotions in check. Everything was starting to fall apart again and all he could do was stand there throwing words at the problem without any power to actually make them mean anything. He might as well try to hold back the tide.

Forcing something resembling calm into his voice, he tried again, "If there's any fault, it's mine. That's what I think. Alright? It certainly ain't yours."

"Your fault?" Charcot raised his head, looking genuinely surprised. "How could it be your fault? I'm the one who..." He shook his head, not wanting to even describe what he had said and done the night before. He was eaten up with remorse for it now. "I'm so sorry."

He had wanted to save his own soul, but he could see now that that was selfish. Bright had been right to call him a selfish bastard. He could not stay and endanger his friends any longer. Maybe God would be merciful. He could understand extenuating circumstances, couldn't he? Charcot knew his mother and sisters would pray for his soul, and surely God would listen to them. Or maybe God had damned him already.

"I'm sorry. I would have done anything for you. But instead I did that."

He covered his mouth, suddenly feeling that he would be sick. Fortunately there was nothing in his stomach to lose.

What a pair of schoolgirls, Bright thought derisively. He'd have thought Kerjean, at least, was above this sort of whinging, but apparently not. They were in a right sorry state indeed if this was how they saw fit to act.

Bright was about to intervene and tell them to stop their crying when the house's main door banged abruptly open and the old woman and her pretty little granddaughter or whatever she was came sweeping in, all a-titter and weepy. They went straight past Bright without appearing to see him and passed into the kitchen. Jesus Christ. Was it something in the water here?

Paol turned sharply at the sound of the door, planting himself between it and Charcot, his hand tightening reflexively around the handle of the knife, but it was neither the riflemen nor Spanish soldiers who entered the kitchen, but the women of the house.

"They're back?" Charcot asked, pressing back against the stairs, but it sounded like just the women.  They fell abruptly silent, probably because they had seen Paol and Charcot by the stairs.

"Of course they're back," Bright retorted, unable to stand this stupidity any longer. "Just come in from seeing their idiot men off, I'd bet. You two are a right sorry pair of twits too. Here, you gonna cut up my waistcoat with that or can I have it back?"

Charcot started at his voice, not taking in anything that he said.  "Bright?"

Paol almost dropped both items in sheer surprise. "....****ing hell."

The old woman barely noticed their surprise.  Why were they not upstairs in their room?  She started to scold them, but then she saw that the big one had a knife in his hand.  The army was barely gone, and already the French were roaming about to murder the inhabitants!  Holy Mother!  She blocked the door to the kitchen and told the girl to grab a couple of knives, quick.

Why weren't those English soldiers around guarding them?  "Señor Kaufmann!  Señor Mittel!" she called at the stairs.