Disclaimer: The characters of Le Chevalier D'Eon do not belong to me.
Max and Durand-centric. Friendship.
Mon Ami
"Durand, don't you dare die on me…" the words were hissed in his ear in a harsh whisper of annoyance. Durand knew he was losing too much blood. He could feel it pouring from his shoulder onto his garments and… The strength had fled his legs and it was only Maximilien's iron grip that kept him upright. Had Robin and the others fled already? He had thought to hold their foes off but he had not reckoned on that damned poet, the same poet who now lay dead on the grass. Was that Lia's doing? Or…
Maximilien's nimble fingers found the letter in his coat pocket just as Durand lost consciousness. The brunette slumped, a dead weight in his arms. But it would be easier now to heal him with the power of the poems. Whispering the words, he sealed the wound the best he could before the redcoats came forward like cautious cats. No one noticed the blond thrust the letter into his own pocket. More would have to be done later. Careful to keep his face expressionless, he allowed the soldiers to take Durand. He considered the bloodied grass, the severed limb and the discarded blades. Let them lie there. Let those three know what has befallen their comrade.
Many months ago, France…
Durand shouted a warning too late. The crack of a pistol caught him off-guard. Maximilien looked mutely at the blood staining his sleeve. He had been shot in the shoulder. Then the pain hit him in a wave of faintness. He stumbled. More shots chipped the wall near his head before Durand reached his side.
"Keep moving," Durand urged and half-dragged him into a warren of alleyways. Somehow they made it back to their safe house without being seen. Lia was not back from her scouting yet. He thanked heaven that Lia was not around to see him in this state. They could not expect him to live after bleeding so much…
"Durand… tell Lia I…" Maximilien gasped softly. A fire blazed in the hearth, turning the room into an oven. Durand had stirred the slumbering embers to life and fed it. He left the poker in the heart of the logs before returning his attention to his comrade leaning pale against the wall. The cruel-looking surgeon's tools were out on the table.
"You tell her yourself," Durand tore the bloodied shirt off his colleague's back and shoved him into an armchair. "This might sting a little, mon ami…" Durand pressed a knee onto Maximilien's lap so that he was pinning him down with his weight. With one hand, he held Maximilien's shoulder steady for the task at hand.
Maximilien bit down on the leather belt Durand had stuffed between his teeth and gripped the armrests, bracing himself for the coming pain. His colleague prodded his wound for the bullet and extracted it. The blond knight finally fainted when the brunette cauterized the wound with a red-hot poker.
Now, London…
Durand groaned softly as he pulled himself up using the wall of his cell. They had taken his coat and that damning letter from Louis was no doubt in their hands. His battered body protested at the strain he was putting on it. Torture was nothing new to him, an occupational hazard. He was more worried about his wound. It was unnatural for it to cease bleeding as soon as it did. His whole body was so bruised and battered that he barely felt any pain in his stump.
His tormentors did not ask him about the Psalms or Lia. They did not know his true purpose… or perhaps their masters did not tell them the truth… like Louis had lied to D'Eon and-
"Max…" Durand breathed. He recognized that slender silhouette anywhere. His friend has always been lithe, much like a stalking cat. Maximilien walked over to him with an unhurried gait. In his hand Durand recognised that damning letter. The blond allowed the paper to fall to the decaying straw lining the floor.
"A touching poem indeed, did His Majesty write it?"
Durand's reply was stubborn silence. He allowed himself to slide back onto his haunches. Maximilien knelt so that he was looking Durand in the eye. Durand turned away from his icy scrutiny.
"You cannot carry those orders out…" Maximilien's tone was deadpan. He knew Durand's character too well. The bleeding was starting again. He placed his hand on Durand's exposed chest and murmured a poem. Durand gasped at the sudden warmth rushing through his veins but he did not pull away. The bleeding slowed and stopped.
"Durand, is it worth serving that man? Is he worth your loyalty? Join me, Durand…" The brunette's eyes flickered up to meet his before darting back to the grimy cell floor. Maximilien knew his answer. Most regrettably, he layered another poem onto the one he had spoken. His friend winced at the discomfort as Maximilien left his mark over Durand's heart. Perhaps he was too weak from blood loss and the beatings to protest at the far more intimate touch of Maximilien's palm on his bare skin.
"Y-you've changed…" Durand rasped. His dark eyes met Maximilien's.
"Have I?"
"L-Lia… did y-you k-kill…" there was a hint of hysterics in Durand's tone.
"Do you really believe I'd hurt a hair on her head? I love her, Durand," Maximilien replied. Durand closed his eyes and nodded, admitting the truth of his words.
"I sincerely hope you will reconsider my offer, mon ami…" Maximilien rose and turned to leave. He had left the letter on the floor beside Durand. The poor fool.
Author's Notes:
I can't resist writing a bit on the Durand-Maximilien friendship. Yes, 18th century surgery can be brutal, especially if carried out by your untrained friend under conditions less than hygienic with a risk of being found out by your enemies.