AN: Earlier I was having a fit. Because of what happened. And I could either sink into a hole or gently ease myself back in. And so, Chuck is not in this chapter. I didn't want to touch Mr and Mrs Bass when I was feeling this way.

Part 9

Nathaniel watched from the doorway as Dan Humphrey stepped inside Blair's room and placed a plate of bread and a glass of water on the table by the bed. The writer sat on the rickety table beside the bed and reached out a hand to place it on Blair's shoulder.

"Blair, open your eyes," he urged. She did not stir, and Dan looked up at Nate with worried eyes. "She's burning with fever."

Nate's jaw locked, then nodded. "She has been fighting off the fever since the doctor dug up the bullet."

Dan glanced towards the corner of the room, where crumpled sheets have been discarded. Blood on the sheets. Her blood. She was his friend, and had served the cause well, and their own men had shot her in the back. When he rushed to her side and found her bleeding, he had been filled with mottled rage.

But the smoking gun was in Nathaniel's hand.

"And what have you done, Archibald?" Dan demanded. "Have you been waiting on the sidelines?"

Nate gripped the knob, still unwilling to step inside the room that was her prison for her treachery. "She was screaming like a madwoman," he recounted his reason for not going into the room while she was treated. "It was piercing my ears," he finished softly.

"They were digging into her flesh for your bullet, Archibald," Dan spat out.

"I did not know."

She had been covered. Completely. The cloak hid her form completely, the hood over her head. How could he have known?

But Daniel pushed, "Did you not? Who did you think it was then? The traitor Baizen and the nobleman were on board."

"I did not think it was she. Not Blair!"

There was a fine sheen of sweat on her face. Dan took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her skin. He dipped the cloth in the basin of water and then squeezed the excess out. He folded the wet cloth and placed it across her forehead.

He needed to tell Serena. They had not talked for too long, not since he had been evicted unceremoniously from her life because of who he was. But Serena would not forgive him if she found out from someone else what had befallen her friend.

Daniel walked up to the other man, the privileged man, the one with the blessed life. "Why were you there?"

Nate's eyes flickered to Blair, who was yet unconscious, would not hear him even if he yelled. "I was there to capture the traitor."

"For what?" Dan exclaimed. "You are not part of this war."

"Because of my grandfather's judgment," Nate argued. "But I can do more. I can be more. And I will prove it."

"By shooting your betrothed in the back," Dan continued bitterly.

Nate grabbed the front of the other man's shirt and pulled him close. "While she was running away with another man," he hissed. And then he stopped. His eyes widened. Nate's lips thinned. "I did not know it was her," he repeated.

Dan grasped the other man's wrists and threw them down. "Leave."

"She is a prisoner."

Dan's eyes narrowed into slits. "Do not bring her into the politics between you and your grandfather."

"My grandfather has no place in this." Nate glanced back at Blair. "This is between her and me."

Dan nodded towards the corridor, urging Nate to leave. If Mr Vanderbilt had not been at his place in the movement, he was sorely tempted to teach the man one or two important things that an aristocrat could only learn from a commoner like him. His fist tightened. Looking at the other man, he pitied Serena van der Woodsen for the future that no doubt lay before her if her family would succeed.

"She has done far more for the cause than your premature leadership, Archibald."

Nate pushed his way through Dan and walked towards the bed. The scent of the whiskey the doctor had poured into her wound, the burning liquid that had made her scream in pain, was pungent still. Nate leaned over her and touched his thumb to the blue tint on her lips. Dan watched, primed and ready to step in with any move that he would not approve of.

Nate took the wet folded cloth from her forehead and dropped it back in the basin. He bent and placed a kiss on her forehead. He touched his fingers to her limp hair, then whispered, "Forgive me."

Dan took his shoulder in a firm grasp. "Leave."

Nate stood up regally, then walked out of the door.

~o~o~o~o~

The Boston movement arrived with all the flair expected of the grandest, most successful team to rise from the insurgence. When Abram Baizen jumped from his horse and proceeded to Mr Vanderbilt, the latter was the first to extend his hand. Abram gripped a folded letter in his hand, and said quietly, "Where is he?"

Mr Vanderbilt ushered the other man to the small dimly lit room where Carter Baizen sat on the hard floor, his wrists tied together with a rope at his back.

Then the room slightly brightened due to the light pouring into the room, Carter looked up. "Father."

Abram abruptly turned to the men surrounding him. "Leave me with my son."

The men filed out of the room. Carter held his breath as his father made his way towards him, then stopped a few feet away. "What have you done, Carter? From what I have heard, you were on board sailing away to your place in this war."

"I could not do it, father. I am first your son."

With those words, he had broken through the wall of ice between them. Abram stumbled towards him and dropped to his knees in front of Carter. The old man gripped his son's head and almost sobbed with relief.

"Are you?" he said harshly. "Is it true? My only son." Carter nodded. Abram cut through the ropes and freed him. "Then you will take your place beside me."

Carter rubbed the sore circles around his wrists. "Father, I need your help."

Abram pulled himself up to his feet and helped his son up. "Tell me," Abram urged his son.

"Help me take Blair Waldorf away from here."

It was a large group, but the most prominent knew the ones within the same circle. And Abram remembered the woman who had been on Nathaniel Archibald's arm. Archibald, after all, was Vanderbilt by blood. "She has defected from the cause," Abram said with a frown.

"She was to escape to England for me, father. She freed me. She committed treason for me."

And then, for the final blow.

"I changed my mind and stayed to be loyal to your cause, father, because of her."

Abram nodded. "Let me see what I can do."

Abram Baizen was at the very top of the Independence movement, and proved his influence to his son within hours. From his place as a prisoner, Carter Baizen was then handed fresh new clothes and a hot meal. And then what he had waited for. For his friend. For the woman who had saved his life.

A young man came up to him as he finished his food. Carter stood and took the hand offered to him.

"Daniel Humphrey," said the man.

"Carter Baizen," he said.

The man shook his head and waved dismissively. "I know who you are. What I do not know is what it is you have to do with Blair Waldorf." And then he clarified, "I have been told to take you to her."

"I am the reason she is here," he told Dan.

Dan folded his arms across his chest, then assessed the other man. "That is a lie."

Almost every day he worked with Blair, saw her change and flourish in those last weeks. And he had glimpsed the man who waited outside for her.

"Who are you to her?"

But this was a stranger. And he had made a vow to keep her safe. Carter answered, "Take me to her, Humphrey." His voice commanding, like a Baizen.

Reluctantly, Dan escorted Carter to Blair's prison. Carter stopped at the doorway at the sight of the room, with the bloody sheets and murky water in the basin. He walked inside, then parted the curtains to allow in some light.

"Get someone in here to take these sheets and change the water."

At that, Dan changed his regard. He nodded and answered, "I'll do that right now."

When the other man left, Carter looked down at Blair. He scowled at the sight. It had only been a few days since their capture, and already she was sunken and sallow. He quickly checked the wound on her back and saw the dried blood on the cloth. Carter peeled at the crusted rag and winced at the sight. "Butchers," he muttered.

In London, the doctors took much more care with the wounds. Because they were not wounds of war.

"This will scar," Carter told himself.

It was one more thing he needed to tell his friend.

He patted Blair's cheeks, felt the hot skin and recognized the fever. "Blair, you have to get stronger. Soon. You will escape from this place," he told her. "I will help you." Because he loved his father, and he owed his best friend. "I will make it happen," he promised.

She moaned deep in her threat. The sweat that bloomed on her forehead told him she would soon recover. Her body expended enough.

"You can do it," he urged her. "Think of Chuck."

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. Carter held her glassy gaze, and knew she was caught within a fevered dream. He smiled. "Chuck is waiting."

She shivered in his arms despite profusely sweating. Outside, the snow still fell, and her teeth chattered.

"Chuck," she whispered brokenly, "it is too cold here."

"Blair," he corrected softly. "It's Carter."

"I'm cold."

Carter sighed, then stripped off his coat. He placed it over her frame.

"Hold me," she said. "Hold me like last night."

There was no time. No place. No one else.

To her, in her fevered dream, she was caught in Victrola, in his bedroom, the night before Chuck departed. And she saw no one but her English lover.

"Please," she pleaded, pulling at his shirt.

Carter gritted his teeth as he toppled over her. He wrapped his arms around her to warm her, rubbed his hands on her arms.

She shivered, and when she looked at him it was clear and glassy. "Kiss me."

"Blair, no."

"Kiss me, Chuck. Kiss me before I die."

Carter shook his head. "I can't." He placed his hands on her back to give her more heat.

She closed her eyes, and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. "I never said I love you," she admitted. "I never said it."

She was slipping away. He felt blood seep from her wound sluggishly onto his palm. "Don't cry." With each sob, the blood soaked more. Carter grasped the discarded rags from the sidetable and ripped through it, then pressed against the wound.

"Why didn't I say it?" she whispered.

Carter placed a hand on her cheek, then sighed. "It's alright, Blair." And then, swallowing hard at the lump in his throat, he told her, "I knew."

And then she smiled through her tears. "You did, my lord?" she breathed.

He thought of his best friend, and short silent moments that came upon Chuck Bass in the times when he thought Carter was not looking. "From the moment I laid eyes on you."

Her eyes still closed, her body relaxing, she said, "In the balcony." She opened her eyes, and he doubted she could see him. She saw what her mind wanted to see, and he was in bed, with her wrapped in his arms, their limbs tangled together.

And she was only in Victrola with another man.

"Kiss me," she requested.

And he did.

tbc