A/N: This is a collection of ficlets written in the Wraiths of Wandering 'verse. The first is pre-Wraiths and the remainder are all set afterwards, because I've never felt finished with that 'verse.
These ficlets are all also appearing in chronological order.
Some notes for those unfamiliar with this 'verse: Konstin is the son of Christine and Erik. Erik died before he was born, and when he was 16 Christine married Raoul, and had two more children, Anja and Émile. Antoine is Konstin's lover, and is also the son of Philippe and Sorelli. He has a twin brother, Guillaume, and a younger sister, Marguerite. Wraiths centred on Konstin and Antoine being badly wounded in the war, and on Marguerite falling in love with a Captain under Konstin's command, Edouard Dupuis, who was also badly wounded.
And if you haven't read Wraiths yet, I really hope you will!
"Two letters for you, sir." Dupuis' voice is soft, and out of the side of his eye Konstin sees him sort through the bundle on the table, dividing them into piles. "Make that three."
Konstin fights to suppress a smile as he wipes off the last of the shaving cream. If he could will it to have letters every day he would. Letters are better than telegrams and memos, less likely to be orders of some sort and infinitely more likely to have something from Antoine.
Antoine. There hasn't been a word from him in the last five days and Konstin has tried to put it down to general busy-ness, but still anxiety flickers in his heart. Antoine's behind the lines or should be, he's supposed to be safe, there's no need for the sudden tightness in Konstin's throat but it's there anyway, clawing at him, whispering that just because Antoine should be safe it doesn't mean he is safe and any variety of things can have changed. There could be word of a coming advance for Christ's sake! Antoine could be in a hundred different shades of danger for all he knows!
The piercing squeal of a shell overhead and he instinctively flinches, his train of thought cut off, though the crash is far off, somewhere else, and only some flakes of dirt fall from the dugout ceiling. Mentally he shakes himself as he fixes his collar.
It is not Antoine in the front line just now.
That line of thought is emphatically not productive, and he pushes it away, combing back his hair. Damn but he needs to get it trimmed again. How can he be expected to berate his men for having hair longer than regulation when his own is getting out of line? It simply will not do.
Finally, satisfied that he is suitably shaved and presented, he turns around to face the table.
Dupuis has a letter laid out in front of him, and he nods towards the coffeepot without looking up. "It's still warm."
"And how are the men?" Always a dangerous question, and Konstin keeps his face impassive as he asks. But Dupuis is used to his asking by now, and makes a noncommittal sound.
"Much the same." A beat, filled only with the faint thundering of distant artillery, muffled by the clay of the walls. "Henri is troubled about the rum ration. He suspects it's somewhat lower than it ought to be."
Possibly just a miscalculation, and it is a quiet sector, but they still have four days scheduled up here. It would not do to run out of rum. "Look into it, won't you?"
"Of course."
The coffee is only moderately warm, not enough to give him the kick he needs to get him into the morning. He reaches into his pocket and finds a stray cigarette, and by the time it has reached his lips, Dupuis is passing him a match. He accepts it, and withdraws his cigarette case, takes one out and lights it as well as his own, passes it over to Dupuis.
All part of the morning ritual.
His eyes flutter closed as he inhales deeply, the smoke drifting down, down into his lungs, flowing through his windpipe and bronchi, webbing out and out into each space. A sketch in one of his father's books comes to him, a set of lungs and all the blood vessels and alveoli webbing out like the branches and leaves on a tiny tree. A beautifully inked piece of art, and somewhere inside of him at this very moment, smoke is winding through that scene.
(Nadir told him, once, long ago, about his father giving up smoking opium out of a fear that it would damage his voice, and Konstin can certainly understand that sentiment but smoking cigarettes is hardly the worst thing that can happen to his lungs now.)
He sighs and opens his eyes, and finally looks to the little bundle of letters before him, that Dupuis has so carefully set aside. On top is one from his mother, her writing a sweet echo from home that makes his throat tighten. It's only a few weeks since he left her, since it was Émile's birthday, and he hugged his little brother before he had to go, and tried not to let him see him cry. He traces his fingers lightly over his name, written in that so familiar hand that he would know anywhere, even in the darkest night, and carefully lifts the letter to see the one underneath.
Marguerite. She has a distinct way of curling the D of his surname, a certain defiant elegance that is so classically her that he can't help but smile to see it. He always intends to make a trip to the château-cum-hospital where she's stationed, but between parades and official functions and letter writing and inspections he never seems to have the time when he's out of the lines, and it's all he can do sometimes just to make arrangements to take tea with Antoine. Next time, maybe, he might get to fit it in. Or the time after that. It might give the men heart if he came calling on them.
And he sets Marguerite's letter aside for later, so he has some new reading material in the wait for the next strafe.
And then there it is. The familiar writing he has dreamt of. The distinct emphasis on the K as if it is scored a little deeper, the flow to the base of the E, the flourish on his rank. Antoine. A magical, blessed, sacred letter from Antoine.
He draws a shuddering breath, tries not to see Dupuis' glance of concern, and then with careful fingers picks up the letter and opens it.
Still alive. Still safe. And he is too relieved to be truly able to take in any words, to truly appreciate that here is a letter from Antoine, here is a sheet of paper he touched, here are the words that sprung forth from his mind for Konstin's eyes and Konstin's eyes only, everything considered in his careful way so that they fit perfectly together.
If it were not for the fact of Dupuis, if it were not for the fact that anyone could walk in and see him, he would kiss the page these words are written on, as if somehow Antoine might be able to feel it. But he can only hold it with all the gentleness he possesses, and pray that that will be enough.
It is the words at the bottom that catch his eye, the lines written in Russian. Antoine's Russian is always a treat, the hushed way it drifts off his tongue, and reading the words it is as if he might be here, whispering low in Konstin's ear.
I love you dearly, always, with all my heart, and every night I dream of when your fingers will comb through my hair again, and when your lips will press lightly to mine, and when you will sing softly in my ear a song you have written wholly for me. They are only dreams, now, but soon, I pray, they will be reality. Go well, my love.
He is powerless to stop the tears that spring to his eyes, and he blinks them back hard as he swallows, and folds the letter again, settling it safely inside his cigarette case. Later he will savour every word of it, will read it and read it until the paper threatens to come apart at the crease and the words are embedded in his very soul, but for now he can only swallow, and smooth his fingers over the paper, before he carefully closes the case and slips it carefully under his uniform, right next to his heart.
(And somewhere behind the lines, Antoine is doing the same, in the privacy of his office, is kissing the paper filled with Konstin's angled script, and folding it carefully, infinitely carefully, so that it may live in a cigarette case pressed to his skin. It is the closest thing they have to touching now, and for the moment it will have to do.)
Dupuis raises his eyebrows as he looks up at Konstin, and Konstin musters a smile for him, and prays his façade will not give him away.
"All is well." And the lie is only half a lie, and well is never enough, but fornow he will cling to it and all that itpromises, and hope that someday soon the Russian will truly be a voice in his ear, and not merely a memory.
A/N: I hope you've enjoyed this snippet of life before Wraiths! Please do review!
Up next: A departure, February 1918