Soup and "Solace"

Ignacio had a bowl of soup ready when her eyes flickered open again. He helped her sit up a little, aware that her whole body could break at a rough touch. He gently placed the spoon of chicken broth at her lips to moisten them a little. She pursed her lips in and out, tasting the liquid carefully.

"It's good. Chicken broth," he murmured, trying a smile. "Try a little, just a little," he urged, and eased some of the soup into her mouth. Muscles moved slowly in her throat as she swallowed a tiny amount, and turned her head. "Please, just a little more."

"It hurts to swallow," she said softly. "I can't."

"Just a little more," he insisted, and she sighed. She allowed him to repeat the process and she swallowed reluctantly.

"No, Miguel. Please…"

Ignacio sighed, and placed the spoon back in the bowl. Two mouthfuls was nowhere near enough nourishment for her. He could barely contain his impatience with Diego's delayed arrival, but he was probably only just getting his letter now. They needed the cactus tea. It would soothe her throat, and get her sleeping properly again. There was nourishment in the disgustingly flavoured gunk, somehow, even if it was just the water.

"Think of the baby," he tried gently. "It needs you to be strong. If you die, so does the baby."

"That's right," she murmured. "That's as it should be."

"No," he said suddenly. "You don't say that – not in that way. You will eat some more, and you will try." He rose from the chair, and turned away, slamming the bowl down on the nightstand. Didn't she understand that she had to try? It would all be for nothing if she didn't try. He crossed over to the door.

"Miguel," she murmured. He was about to leave the room, and yell and scream at someone to relieve some of the pent up frustration, but he paused. "I'm sorry."

He sighed, and relaxed tense shoulders. "I'm sorry too," he said half to himself, as he left the room.

Zzzz

Armand was nearby, coming out of the nursery just down the hall, after visiting his three month old daughter. Ignacio had closed the door softly, and was leaning on it, with his hand on the door knob. Ignacio was wondering if he should go back into the room, and try again. He had lost his temper with her acceptance of death, her lack of a will to live, but she needed him to keep making her try.

"Ignacio?" Armand said, trying to catch his attention.

"Armand…has Marcela ever been ill, really ill?" The words were soft and thoughtful, and Ignacio was glancing at the floor. Armand could barely hear his voice.

"No, she's very healthy, thank goodness," Armand said softly. He touched his brother-in-law's arm, trying to get his attention, trying to make him look at him. Ignacio edged away from him. Armand sighed.

"Come downstairs and let the lady rest, Ignacio," Armand suggested. "A few moments won't make any difference. Eat lunch with us."

Ignacio cast a pained glance at the closed door, and sighed. He followed his brother-in-law downstairs to the dining room.

Marcela stood to greet him with a rather sedate hug, as he reached the dining table. He seated her carefully, pushing her chair in towards the table, as was expected of him. He took his seat next to his sister.

A bowl of soup sat in front of him. It was a hearty garlic soup with bread, and he smiled at his hosts.

He tasted it, carefully. It was well made, but his stomach protested strangely. He listened without hearing to Marcela as she described the balls she had participated in within the last month, and joys of motherhood and of recent dress purchases. Her voice was soothing in itself, and he forced himself to eat some more soup. He had no interest in his sister's choice of topics, and he realised she knew that already. He barely noticed his surroundings - his mind was with his beloved.

Armand said something he didn't catch, and he nodded. Nodding did the trick most of the time - and pleased most people, and would allow the numbness to continue. His brother-in-law, however, frowned and repeated what he said.

"What was that, Armand?" He forced himself to ask, glancing toward the Colonel, seated at the head of the table.

"How are you feeling? You look exhausted, Ignacio." Armand was frowning, saying the same thing three times obviously annoyed him. Marcela was watching him carefully too. She reluctantly ate some soup, trying to force herself to act naturally.

"Oh," Ignacio said. He shrugged, as he pulled some of his bread apart, and placed a piece in his mouth. He forced himself to chew it, swallowing was awkward.

"You need to rest, Ignacio," Marcela said gently. "We are worried about you."

Armand opened his mouth, and began to say something. He felt better of it and closed it again, sipping his wine to cover his slight embarrassment. He shook his head at himself and sighed. Marcela frowned at her husband. Ignacio had watched him closely from his seat, and felt the growing irritation. Friends were becoming strangely uncomfortable to be around.

"What were you going to say, Armand?" Ignacio said, keeping his voice even and soft.

Armand shook his head at his brother-in-law. "It's not important, Ignacio."

"What were you going to say?" Ignacio's voice was more insistent, and he felt anger rise within him.

Marcela stood up quickly, with a rustle of silk skirts, and looked at her husband and back at her brother. "Please, we don't need to discuss hard things right now. Leave it alone, Ignacio." She reached out and touched her brother's arm. "Armand, please. Not now."

Ignacio stared hard at his host, and Armand shrugged. Whatever the man was going to say, he needed to say it, Ignacio thought. Even if the words would cut into him like knives. He had an idea of what he would say already, he had given enough clues to the difficult nature of the topic.

"She is dying, Ignacio. You need to face it. You know what death looks like. You are a soldier," Armand said, ignoring his wife's pleading eyes. "Be a man, and face it."

"She is alive, and she is staying that way," Ignacio said, standing and throwing his napkin on the table next to his bowl. "I'm sorry Marcela. I am not hungry. Excuse me."

He ran lightly back up the stairs, heading towards the guest room. She would eat some more soup. He would beg her to. He would admit his identity and demand it. She would live. He had been drawn back to the living by her hand, and he would drag her back to him. He could not listen to the Colonel, or his own reason. He would ignore the fact that her lips were blue and her eyes were sunken, and the fact that he had seen others die in similar ways. Others survived despite those symptoms, and so would she.

Memories of hard times in Cadiz tried to intrude, of childhood friends dying slowly of famine related illnesses, and he pushed them away. He himself had survived those times. It was not Cadiz and it was not a famine. He would save her. He had to.