His ears throb. They ache deep, drilling right into his skull so that all he can hear is a high-pitched constant squeal. The pain burns deep in his brain, as if there are needles piercing his eardrums. He gasps a breath, and in the next moment regrets it as his lungs sear hot.

For a long time he knows no more.

Muffled shouts, screams, far away. Rattling. Screeching. A banging crash and another one, buzzing in his ears. His throat aches, blood stinging metallic on his lips.

It comes to him in bits, impressions. A shell, its screech muffled by the fog so that it sounded as if it were screeching over someone else, far away. A spurt of blood in the air. His skin crawling on the back of his neck. A brief flash of pain, pain in his face, his eyes, his chest, his legs. And then there was only stillness.

Only stillness.

Konstin's eyes flicker open to pressing fog, and sharp pain lances deep into his skull. He snaps his eyelids closed, gasping, his lungs aching with the effort to breathe through the thick fog. Gas. Was there gas? They say gas burns the eyes, blisters the skin, the inside of the throat. If there's gas—

He draws in a deeper breath, chest heaving to gag on it, and smells no mustard, no musty hay. It does not mean there is no gas but if he cannot smell it—

If he cannot smell it—

Slower, this time, he opens his eyes again.

The pain stabs his left eye, only his left eye, and he hisses as he closes it, his breath catching in his throat. Tears trickle down his cheeks, the pain stinging, and he grits his teeth, sucking in shallow breaths until it eases.

His thoughts come slow, sticky.

One eye…ears ringing…chest…limbs?

Carefully, he wriggles the fingers on his right hand, and finds them a little stiff, but compliant. His left fingers throb dully with pain, wrist prickling, and the moment he tries to raise his arm he feels the skin of his forearm tear.

It's all he can do to stifle a gasp.

Probably shouldn't try that again.

He swallows the groan in his throat, and sluggishly turns his attention to his legs. Pain stabs in his right knee and hip, uncomfortable more than anything. The left—

The left he tries to lift, and gags. Pain bursts in his hip, in his knee, in his ankle, his shin burning and thigh aching. Beads of sweat break out on his skin, his breath coming in shorter gasps, misting before him in the fog, tears stinging his eyes. Pain, pain, pain, and he can't move his leg at all.

In spite of himself he snorts a laugh. It's ridiculous, really, that he should be lying out here, his chest aching with every breath, half-blind with a throbbing headache in the back of his skull, one arm that feels like it's splitting open if he moves it, and one leg that bursts with pain if he so much as twitches it.

How ridiculous.

How fucking ridiculous.

The tears sting as they trickle down his cheeks but he cannot muster the energy to move his arm and wipe them away. He can only lie there, with the fog pressing in on him, and weep.

It is a long time later when he comes back to his senses. He might have passed out again, he doesn't know. The pain in his skull would certainly suggest it. But he finds himself still lying there, the fog still pressing in on him as if he is in a cocoon away from the rest of the world, as if there is only him left.

Where are the others?

The question comes unbidden, and his stomach churns at it, bile rising and burning his throat. If he is lying here, burning and throbbing with pain and barely able to move a muscle, then where are the others? They should be here too, somewhere around him. They would not have left him here alone. Maybe, if they thought him dead, but Dupuis at least would check even if none of the others did. Dupuis would feel a pulse, would surely, surely hear the rattle of his breath (he can hear the muffled rattle of his own breath and it sounds awful) and order him brought back to be stretchered out.

But they left him here.

They left him here.

Before the hollowness of abandonment has time to open in his gut, a terrible thought comes to Konstin through the sludge of his brain. Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps he has not moved on yet, is condemned to lie here for an eternity. Perhaps this is to be his Fate, forever lying in No Man's Land with the fog pressing in and pain burning in every inch of his body. Perhaps this is all there is.

No! No. It can't be it can't. He's not dead he's not he's not. That's not how it works. You don't just die and stay there forever! There's supposed to be more to it than that. If there wasn't the world would be full of ghosts. If there wasn't he wouldn't be lying here alone, there would be more ghosts, more dead scattered around, it wouldn't be like this.

Konstin sucks in a breath and his ribs stab with the effort but it clears his thoughts enough that he's able to gather himself a bit. If he were dead, if, then he would not be breathing, but he is very definitely breathing and each bit of throbbing pain in his chest assures him of that. If he were dead he would not have a pulse.

His left arm is too badly damaged, but he scrabbles at his throat with his right hand, clumsily pulls the buttons of his collar open, and presses his fingers to where he knows the artery is.

And finds a pulse.

Even though he knew it would be there, he can't help the nauseating wave of relief that washes over him.

He is alive. He is.

So what are you going to do about it?

The voice is Antoine's, whispering to him from the depths of his memory. Dimly he sees himself again as he was, twenty years ago, telling Antoine about his plan to go on an adventure, and Antoine's brown eyes frowning at him.

So what are you going to do about it?

"I'm go…ing to…have to…move" The words are faint, out before he ever realises it. But they are true. He has to move, somehow. He can't just stay lying here all night, and night has fallen, he feels it, though how long ago he cannot tell. When he was unconscious? Or when he was out of his senses?

But he can't stand up and walk away either, not with the state his leg must be in. He doesn't know how far away he is from the lines, or even what direction they are. He could hobble right into German hands. If they didn't outright shoot him he'd be scarcely better off than he is now.

The pain in his head makes it so hard to think, his vision blurring around the edges. Surely, surely there's something he can do.

He draws in another breath, and curls his fingers tight to brace himself before turning his head infinitely carefully to his left.

And there, barely ten yards away, is a shell crater.

He can see it just below the fog, would miss it if he were sitting up. Is that from the shell that left him like this? Or is it from another, older one? Does it matter?

If he can only turn over, somehow, and get to it.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he manages to roll over. The pain slices through his chest and leg, and for a moment he loses the world to blackness.

When the crater and the fog swim back into view, he swallows a breath, finds himself lying on his front and it takes him a moment to realise why. It's harder to breathe like this, his lungs burning with the pressure of the muddy earth beneath him, but he has to try and if he can even pull himself over—

Pulling himself is all he can do, and using his good right leg to push himself he gets to move a little way. It's not much, and it's not nearly enough, but it's progress, and even with the sweat breaking out on his forehead and the tears running down his cheeks with the effort he takes heart from that and pulls himself another tiny bit, and another, and other. And his ribs ache and his lungs stretch, gasping for breath and his leg burns like it's on fire but he can't stop now, he can't stop or he'll die and pulling himself might kill him but it's better than lying out there exposed when the fog clears, better than dying out here without making any effort to save himself and he just pulls, just pulls…

For the briefest pause between heartbeats he thinks he sees someone standing in black before him, then he topples into the shell crater and the figure is gone and there is only pain burning in every muscle, in every bone, in his blood.

Golden eyes dance before him, and his last thought is, if Antoine were here, before the darkness takes him again, at last, and there is no pain, no burning, only silence.