Though the surgeon (who seems to be at least as old as Raoul and whose hair is wholly grey) has passed him recovered enough that he is permitted to stand, and even to try to walk, Antoine can only manage a couple of steps before his legs buckle beneath him, and the nurse that is supporting him (a stern-faced woman who is either his age or older) catches him and eases him back onto the bed. Pain shoots beneath his ribs at the jarring of his wound, but though it makes him wince Antoine bites his lip and refuses to whimper. The surgeon also considers his wound recovered enough that they are cutting down his morphine supply, and though he does not relish the thought of more pain, it is a relief. If he is recovering enough that they want him to walk, recovering enough that they are cutting down his morphine, then surely that can only mean that he will soon be recovered enough to leave this room, to visit Konstin.

And if visiting Konstin is the only motivation that Antoine can give himself, then it is more than enough. He is sick of communicating by tapping on the wall. It is high time that he get himself able to see the man he loves, to talk to him properly, and even if they are not able to kiss because of the risk of prying eyes, then holding his hand, if only for a moment, will more than suffice.

He will make it suffice.

Antoine braces himself, and looks back up at the nurse who is regarding him carefully, and nods. "Let's try again."


His face is chilled, waxy beneath her fingertips, and she lightly traces the contours of it, learns it. The angle of his nose (smooth), the thin delicate skin of his eyelids (some part of her whispering to be gentle, not to hurt him), two pockmarked scars hidden along his hairline, legacy of a childhood illness.

Like shell craters.

Her fingers tremble at the very thought, and she trails them downwards, over the faint creases at the edge of his eye, over the angle of his cheek, and they come to rest on his lips. His parted, pale, tinged blue lips, and there is no brush of air, no warmth, no movement. No breath against her fingertips and she did not expect there to be, did not expect, but there is supposed to be breath, supposed to be a soft exhale, supposed to be—

Marguerite's eyes snap open, heart pounding, breaths short, and the impression of Edouard's lips lingers on her fingertips. She gasps, her heart twisting, and it is then, and only then, that she realizes her cheeks are wet.


The tears trickle slowly from Mamma's eyes as he speaks, and he briefly considers stopping, briefly regrets telling her about Papa at all, and his voice is soft as he asks, "Would you like me to stop?" If it is hurting her, drawing up old painful memories for her, then there is no need for her to hear about these things, no need for her to hear about the way Papa stayed with him through it all.

She shakes her head, and gently kisses his fingers that she has cradled to her lips. Her voice is muffled as she speaks. "No, don't. Tell me everything, everything you remember. It is good to hear about him, good to know that he is out there somewhere even if I cannot see him." She pauses, and when she speaks again her voice is fainter. "It would be so much worse—so much worse to think of him just not being anywhere."

It is not the first time that Konstin has wondered about how awful it must have been for her, losing Papa when they had only had a few months together. He has always known what happened. She explained it to him gently when he was very young and asked her why Gee and Twon have a Papa and I have no Papa, and she wrapped him in her arms, and her voice got all strange as she explained to him that your Papa was very ill, Konstin, and he had to go to be with God, but he's watching over you, I promise he is and of course that was what made him wonder if Papa was a ghost, made him wonder over why, if Papa was watching over him, he could not see Papa, or talk to him. It all seemed so simple to his child's mind, and he was far too young to think of how painful it must have been for Mamma, to be reminded of the fact that he could not know his father, and his father could not know him, and she must be without him, without the man she had loved.

And she was so young, so young when she lost Papa, so young when she was left a widow expecting a baby, barely older than Anja is now. Barely more than a girl herself, really, and sometimes he still struggles to remember that Anja is not a child anymore but a young woman, but Mamma was that young woman once when she met the man who would be his father and—

and it feels as if the world is tilting into place, the terrible awful grief his mother must have known, and of course he's known about it, always been aware of it on some level, but if he were to lose Antoine he does not think he could survive, does not think he would have the strength to keep breathing without him, but Mamma lost Erik, lost Papa, lost his father, and still carried on and had him, and tried to be happy for him, and it was not until he got older, got much older, shortly after he first kissed Antoine and realised he could not live without him, that he realised how much of a struggle it must have been for her, pretending that she was not constantly aching inside.

And for the first time, for the first time though he has always distantly known it, Konstin realises that his mother is still grieving for his father, still aching for him. It is there in her eyes, there in her voice, there in the twist of her lips against his fingers, and tears sting his eyes, blur her though she is slightly blurred already, and he swallows hard against the tightness in his throat.

To have carried that grief, that pain, through thirty-six years…

And to be able to be happy in spite of that pain always being there.

He swallows again, and whispers, finding the words the ghost of his father breathed into his ear, "He said you made him very happy." He sucks in a breath, willing the tears to hold off, just a little longer, and fresh tears well up in Mamma's eyes. "And he was sorry, sorry for hurting you, and for—for not fighting harder." Konstin's own voice breaks now, his throat tight. How often have those words replayed in his mind? I wish I had fought harder. I wish. So many times, so many, and how often has he wished the same thing too, that Papa had fought harder?

More times than he can count.

Every day of his life.

And Mamma has wished it even more desperately.

Her fingertips are gentle wiping his tears away, and she bows her head, and kisses him gently on the forehead. "I never stopped loving him, you know," she whispers, and he knows that, oh, he knows that now though he never really knew it before. "Not once, through all those years. I never stopped. And you know I—I miss him still. It never really goes away." She pauses, and swallows, and smiles at him, the tears trickling down her cheeks. "You are so much like him," she whispers, "so much. I see him in you all the time, as if some part of him has remained. And though I—I can't see him can't—I'm glad that he was there with you. I'm so glad."

So much like him.

We have never been normal, you or I.

The ache inside of Konstin's chest, the ache for his father that has always been there, is wider now than it has ever been, longing writhing inside of him, and Mamma presses her lips again to his forehead, squeezes his hand tighter, and his voice is as small as a little boy's as he whispers, "I miss him, Mamma. He said he wouldn't leave, but he's gone, he's gone—"

"Ssshh, ssshhh. Don't fret yourself, darling, don't fret. I think he's—he's probably here, even now, only neither of us realise it. I think he," and her voice trembles but she goes on, "I think he's always been here." And she presses her forehead against his, her arm slipping under his shoulders to pull him closer, and he whimpers, and closes his eyes, and hopes, hopes desperately, that her words are true.


Even though Konstin dozed off some time ago, Christine cannot bear to leave him, not now. He is so fragile, so delicate, and the thought of leaving him, now, when there was such pain in his eyes as he talked of Erik, makes her heart squirm and rebel. He needs her here, so very much.

His fingers are cool against her lips, almost brittle, and in her mind's eye it could be all of those decades ago, her sitting by Erik's bedside instead of Konstin's, holding his still, cool fingers to her lips and waiting, endlessly waiting, for him to wake up.

How many times did she do that? Sit beside him and cradle his hand, and wait? After morphine doses and pains in his chest and full-on attacks that made him collapse, each time some part of her wondering, how much longer? How much more will he be forced to endure? While she hoped, and prayed, and ached for him to be all right.

(If she cast her mind back, dared to dwell in those, some of the most painful memories of their time together, she would surely find an answer.)

But Erik was there, with Konstin. And no matter how she aches inside, no matter how much worry still lingers in her bones, she cannot help but feel lighter for knowing that. Oh, Raoul had assured her of it ("How could he be anywhere else, Christine?") and she suspected it herself, especially after he came to her that night, promising her that their boy would be all right, and saying that he was so proud of him, but it is a different thing, to hear it directly from Konstin than to simply know it by her own intuition.

The confirmation of it still brings tears to her eyes, but they are not tears of grief, or of fear, simply of happiness.

Better that Erik be out there somewhere, than to be simply nowhere. Better that he still exist in some form, in some way, than to be simply nothing.

And best that he have been with Konstin.

It must have been such a comfort to Konstin, to see him, to hear him, to feel him. Oh, but she is so happy for him, so happy that he could meet his father at last.

He kept telling me I had to live, Mamma.

She knows firsthand how persuasive Erik was, the way he could look at someone and say something, and it felt absolutely necessary to do as he instructed. He trained her voice, did he not? And he compelled her more than once, in those first difficult weeks, before everything with Raoul and the torture chamber, but not in their marriage.

Never in their marriage.

She acted of her own free will in all of that.

But it is Erik who brought her son back to her, Erik who compelled him to live, held his hand and talked to him and reminded him that he needed to fight, needed to survive.

(And when she looked in on Antoine, he confided in her that he thinks it is Erik who led them across No Man's Land, and she knows it was, oh she knows.)

It is thanks to Erik that Konstin is here today, sleeping and frail and still with so very much recovering to do but here, alive and here, all thanks to Erik.

And she kisses his fingers again, her poor boy's fingers, tears prickling her eyes, and leans back, and sighs. And there are muffled voices in the distance, footsteps of nurses going about their business, but they all fade away, as if they belong to another world and have nothing to do with this, with this room and Konstin in this bed, and his soft breathing is what she focuses on, that breathing that she was terrified she would never hear again.

"Thank you, Erik," she whispers, and hopes that somehow, somewhere, he can hear her. "Thank you."


A/N: Chapter title comes from the song 'Grace' by Kate Havnevik, familiar to some from the Grey's Anatomy Series 2 finale, but also a song that I've listened to quite a bit in the writing of this fic.

(The title is one that I had planned to use around chapter 22 or so, but then my outline for the story changed so I think it works better here)

The next chapter is slated for Thursday, according to my careful schedule that I absolutely never deviate from -eye rolls-

Thank you for all of your support and lovely reviews. Only three chapters and the epilogue left!

(In other words, the addressing of things that I still want to address)

Up next: A nightmare and an almost-nightmare for Konstin, and Marguerite is desperate.