A/N: Apologies for how long this has taken! This chapter proved more difficult than expected to write, and though I said it would focus on Marguerite it actually has Marguerite, Christine, and Konstin. I hope you enjoy it!
Mamma's hand is cool on his forehead, and through the net of his eyelashes he sees her frown. She moves her hand, presses the back of it to his cheek and then his neck and he shudders at how cold it is, but her frown only deepens.
"I think I should stay home tonight, Nadir." Her voice is soft, as if she is afraid of waking him, but he is already awake and she can't stay home from the opera, she just can't! It's a gala night! She's supposed to be singing Papa's music! It's not the same if silly Amelia sings it. It has to be Mamma!
Nadir murmurs something softly and Konstin doesn't catch it, but Mamma bites her lip. She shouldn't bite her lip like that. She'll only hurt it and make it bleed and that wouldn't be good for her singing. It'll keep stretching and bleeding again!
"I don't think his fever has changed at all." Mamma's voice isn't Mamma's. It's strained and wrong. Doesn't she know it's bad for her to strain her voice?
"…the doctor again?" Not the doctor! The doctor pokes too much with his cold hands, always prodding at his neck and his belly and it's horrible!
Through the haze Mamma shakes her head. "He said to send for him if he was worse before morning but he's not worse. He's just…the same." A beat and then, "I think I'll stay."
"No." Konstin's throat aches with the word, his voice hoarse but someone needs to say it. "No, Mamma, go."
Her shadow leans in over him, her soft hand wrapping around his. "You're very ill, Konstin." She presses her lips softly to his forehead and he squirms against how cool they are. "I should stay with you."
"But," he swallows, his throat scratching, "I want you to go. To sing Papa's song." Tears prickle his eyes, and her fingers are gentle as she dries them.
"Ssshhh, Konstin. There will be more galas. I can sing his song then. When you are well again I can sing it for you, but I do not like being away right now. I missed more than one performance when your Papa was ill. Tonight I should be here."
"You," he sighs, and draws in a breath, tears wet as they trickle down his cheeks. Mamma brushes them away as he whispers, "you w-w-weren't singing his song then. Please, Mamma."
His eyes slip fully closed, and distantly he hears Nadir whisper, "…very upset over it…" and Mamma whispers back, "I know." Neither of them can see, neither of them understand that Mamma has to be the one to sing. Papa will be there and he'll see her and he'll be so happy that she's singing his song. "For Papa, Mamma," he whispers, his voice faint, "Sing it for Papa."
She kisses his forehead again, and her voice is soft. "All right, älskling, all right. But I'll come right home after I sing, and Nadir will stay with you while I'm gone, and send for me if you want me. I'll rush right back, I promise."
Konstin nods, and in spite of the pains aching in all of his bones, he smiles.
Alive. Her boy has to be alive somewhere, he must be. He can—he simply cannot be dead. Even if he is lying wounded he must be alive. Anything else is unacceptable, impossible!
The thought comes to Christine, unbidden, that she thought the same of Erik, once. Even as he lay dead in her arms she tried to convince herself that it was impossible, but this is different. She knows it is different. She will not accept that her son could be dead until someone comes and tells her so, someone more than words written on a scrap of a paper. But for now, for now he must be alive, and she must only think that he is alive.
But still. Still the fear twists deep in her heart, like it did on the bank of the lake so long ago, when she called for Erik and he did not come. And she saw him lying dead, saw him lying sprawled on the parlour floor, saw him slumped over his black couch barely breathing and dead or gravely ill could be the only explanations for why he was not there. And she would have swum to him, across that damned lake, just to see him, just to know, just to be certain that he was all right.
Then he stepped out of the shadows, and revealed that he had been conducting an experiment.
Would that Konstin were conducting such an experiment. Would that he would walk through the door, and drop his great coat on the floor, and be here. Would that she could wrap her arms around him.
It has never been in Konstin's nature to conduct such cruel experiments.
Christine's heart twists and she buries her face in the cushion at her shoulder. Raoul's arms tighten around her, his face nuzzling into her hair as if he knows the terrible thoughts that keep coming back, those horrifying images of Konstin half-buried in mud, of Konstin covered in blood, of Konstin's white face and blue-tinged lips and red rimmed eyes. And of course he knows, of course, and he must be seeing them too but she cannot turn and try to comfort him, not when every fibre of her is aching to have her son back, is aching to see him here, is aching to know, just to know, one way or the other.
But Raoul does not speak, does not need to speak, not now. And no words that he could say would make a difference now, not when she is telling herself all the same words, that Konstin is more likely alive than dead, that just because the Ministry thinks he is missing he is not necessarily missing, that even if he is missing he might be only wounded or a prisoner and may be found yet. Might have been found already and she just has not heard yet!
"Perhaps they're wrong," Raoul whispered, hours ago now. "Perhaps he is still with his men, coming down the line."
The hope sounded dim, even to her desperate ears. And she could not pretend that she had not already thought of that, had already considered the possibility as something to cling to and then discarded it when she considered that the Ministry would have checked, would have verified it.
"They would not have sent word unless they were certain."
"Why…why can I…can I not...feel my legs?" Capitaine Dupuis' voice is so very faint, and Marguerite squeezes his hand, brushes her thumb over the back of his fingers. Maybe it is because of Konstin, maybe it is because he was one of the last to see Konstin alive (and he must be alive, he must be), but she feels drawn to the Capitaine, drawn to comfort him moreso than any of the other patients. There is something about him, something in his half-open eyes, and she cannot help the stab of pain in her heart looking at him and how terribly frail he is.
"It is the medication," she says softly, "for the pain." She cannot tell him about the damage to his spine, that he may never feel his legs again. He is not the first, oh he is certainly not the first, but she cannot bear to tell him such things, not when he is already so weak.
He nods, and swallows, his eyes fluttering closed. "I…I—Wha—what is your name, mad—mademoiselle?"
"De Chagny. Marguerite De Chagny," and at her words his eyes flicker open again to reveal a rim of green iris, a faint frown creasing his face.
"De Cha—are…is your brother the…the Com—mandant?"
Her heart stutters. The Commandant? Antoine? Does he know Antoine? Has he seen him? Is he well? Is he safe?
"Yes. Yes, he is. Do you know him?"
He licks his lips, his eyes slipping closed again, the effort of speaking too exhausting. "I—I've met him. He—he comes to visit Comm—andant Daaé sometimes."
She cannot pretend that she is not disappointed to have no news of Antoine, but she is not surprised. It is several days since she had a letter from him, and he is surely busy. She cannot find it in herself, either, to be surprised that he visits Konstin. Likely, now, with both units fighting so close together, they see each other behind the lines, or in the trenches. Does he know that Konstin is missing? Does he know what happened to him?
Part of her hopes not. It would worry him, would terrify him. They've always been so close, and if he thinks Konstin is missing, is in danger, then it will distract him and he'll make some sort of dreadful mistake or do something stupid or—
No. No. She must not think like that. Such thoughts bode badly. She must not think of Konstin, and she must not think of Antoine. There is only the Capitaine, now, and the other wounded men, and if she lets herself think of her brother or her cousin then she cannot focus on them, and the worry will throb in her heart and she cannot have that now, she cannot.
With difficulty she smiles for the Capitaine, though her stomach is churning and his eyes are closed, and squeezes his hand one last time before setting it down.
"That's nice," she whispers. "Now, Capitaine. You need to rest. They will soon take you to surgery."
So cold so cold. Body trembling, skin crawling off, something living beneath it, something biting stinging burning, back, stomach, legs, burning burning burning cold, arms tightening around him, pulling him close, fingers tap-tap-tapping at the back of his neck, skin sloughing, peeling, crumbling, so itchy so itchy—
Rake of nails over skin and a hand clasps both of his, grips them tight. "Don't…scratch, Konstin…draw blood…make it worse." Impression of eyes, deep brown eyes and falling, falling, tumbling into those eyes but hands catch him, curl around his arms and hold him safe.
He loses sight of the eyes, darkness back again, and beneath his ear he can feel a heartbeat, feel it thudding against him, his own heart twisting, aching to be closer, closer, arms tightening around him. "…opium wearing off…be all right, my love, be all right…"
Antoine's lips gentle against his forehead are the last he knows for a long time.
Erik's pocket watch is heavy in her hand, and she cradles it close. Konstin refused to bring it with him when he went to the Front, in case anything ever happened to it, so he gave it back to her for safe keeping, and now she wishes that he did have it, out there with him. It would protect him, protect him better than the Saint Anthony she hung around his neck ever could.
If she closes her eyes, she can still see the day Nadir pressed it into her hand, after lifting it off Erik's body. And she can see the day, in turn, when she pressed it into Konstin's hand, before he went off on his tour to Persia. Tears shone in her son's eyes as his fingers closed around it, and he pursed his lips, and nodded at her, and whispered, "I swear I will take good care of it."
There was a great solemnity about him, when the war came, and he pressed it back into her hand.
Raoul sets another cup of tea down for her, and shatters her thoughts. He does not speak a word, simply sits beside her and draws her back into his arms, and she lets him. It was he who told Anja the news, his voice soft where Christine's own had failed, and Anja paled, so much that Christine thought she might faint, but then she nodded, and returned to her room, and when she came back downstairs it was in her nurse's uniform, and off she went to the hospital though it is her day off, looking half like a ghost but her head up high.
And when Émile came down, and they told him, he went back up to his room and shut himself away, and refused to let in her or Raoul, refused to see anyone, until Philippe came and Émile opened the door for him.
They have always been so close, Émile and Philippe. And Émile and Konstin.
Tears sting her eyes as the image appears before her, of Konstin holding tiny, baby Émile in his arms for the first time, that soft smile on his face. He was so happy, to have a baby brother. So happy.
Her stomach churns at the thought that he might be gone, might—might already be lying dead somewhere, and her stomach churns, the world tilting. How can he be gone? How? And it's so hard to breathe, so hard, her chest tight and lungs burning and before she knows it she is lying down, and Raoul is cradling her head to his chest, and she gasps into his shirt, the tears trickling from her eyes as he rocks her, his own tears dampening her hair.
"Oh my darling," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Oh my darling."
Capitaine Dupuis does not stir as she takes his blood pressure, his face remaining pale and slack. It is a little lower than she would like, a little lower than it really should be. Marguerite makes a note of it, a check of worry in her heart. He has had enough stimulants for now, and another dose might put too much strain on him, but his blood pressure really is too low. Maybe—no, no. It is too much of a risk. She will check on him again in half an hour and see how he is, and if he needs it then he can have it then.
He has not stirred at all since his surgery.
His pulse faltered twice beneath her fingers, body still too weak despite transfusions and fluids and warming, to endure the trauma of surgery. She can still feel it, the fluttering of the beats and the coolness of his skin, and the surgeon, Carrière, stopped his work to listen to his heart. He had already taken the Capitaine's leg, reasoning that will kill him first, and though he frowned listening to his heart he decided that the Capitaine was strong enough to continue with the surgery, and ordered him rolled over so he could work on his back.
Marguerite sighs and sets the chart down, forcing the thoughts away. The Lieutenant, in the bed beside Capitaine Dupuis, needs her attention too. He had shrapnel removed from his chest, and has not woken yet either, but with him she is not surprised. The nurse that was there, Minette, said that he stopped breathing during his surgery, and it was a rush to replace the gas-oxygen combination with pure oxygen and stimulate him to take a breath.
Marguerite hears the rattle of his breathing, and knows that if he wakes again he will be fortunate.
The other Capitaine, opposite the Lieutenant, lost both legs, one at the line with a shell and one here. But his surgery passed off normally, and though he is sleeping now he has been awake twice in the last hour and a half, and lucid the second time. Marguerite checks him now, and finds his pulse normal and his breathing normal, but cannot find it within her to be relieved for him.
The rush of footsteps down the hall pulls Marguerite from her thoughts, and she looks up to find Amélie flushed, looking in the door.
"An ambulance…has pulled in," she gasps, "two Commandants, one in a bad way. Matron wants you down there."
Marguerite swallows, and sets the chart down. Two Commandants? For two officers of that rank to come in together is unusual to say the least, and she nods, and hitches her skirt, and follows Amélie already rushing down the hall.
It's the slight shifting of the bed that wakes him. "How has he been?" Mamma's voice is hushed, even more than it was earlier.
"He fell asleep shortly after you left, and never stirred." Nadir's voice is hushed too, more hushed than Konstin has ever heard it.
Mamma's fingers are soft as they tuck some of his hair behind his ear, lovely and soft, like silk, and Konstin sighs, leaning into her touch. "Thank you for looking after him, Nadir."
"Of course, Christine. The gala was good?"
"I was too distracted to sing my best, but I doubt if anyone noticed except for Raoul. Everything else was splendid."
"That's good." A yawn, before, "I think I'll turn in. Do you want any tea?"
"Maybe just some peppermint, in case he wakes in the night. It should help to settle him."
The door creaks, and a moment later Mamma's arms wrap around him, pulling him close. He nuzzles into her, feeling so warm and safe, and she kisses his hair and whispers, "Oh, my darling, precious little boy." Her voice is hoarse, and he is halfway back to sleep when she adds, "You remind me so much of your Papa, so much."
"You need to sleep, darling." Raoul's voice is soft, and his eyes troubled as he squeezes her hand. His face is creased with worry, eyes soft, and though she knows he is right, knows she really should get some sleep, how can she sleep now? How can she bring herself to sleep when she does not know if her boy is safe or not?
She shakes her head. "How can I, Raoul? How can I?"
"It's not going to find him any faster if you wear yourself out."
"I know, but—But if I try to sleep I'll only see him wounded and—" Her heart is pounding, pounding so fast she can feel it in her throat, but Raoul smooths his hand over her hair, and pulls her close to that she does not hear her heart, but his, and he kisses her hair.
"It's all right. It's all right, Christine. He'll be all right."
"There is no way you can know that, no way." Her voice is hoarse, and he tightens his arms around her, and sighs.
"I know. But until we know anything for certain, we have to have hope. We have to have hope."
The moment her eyes fall on Konstin's face, Marguerite's head spins. Her legs buckle beneath her, and she catches herself on the edge of the bed they've lifted him into. She did not expect it to be him. She should have thought of him, and she knows by the way Amélie looks at her that she did not expect it to be him either.
He does not wake, the eye she can see remaining stubbornly closed, and the other covered by the bandage wrapped around his forehead. The Matron is pulling off the sheets over him, revealing more bandages around his chest, his abdomen, his left arm, both legs, bandages and bandages and bandages. What happened to him? What could have happened to him? Gas? A shell?
Dupuis said there was a shell, said he lost sight of him with the explosion. And this is what happened to him.
But Amélie said there were two Commandants. Two.
At the same moment, Minette, working over the other casualty with several nurses, calls her. "Marguerite!" And like that, just like that, Marguerite knows.
Her legs stumble as she crosses the gap between bed, her breath caught in her throat, and hardly does she recognise blonde hair and a sharp nose and hazy brown eyes as her brother, when the colour drains from the world, and she sways.
"You look better." Antoine smiles at him as he settles back into the chair he's occupied for the last several days, and Konstin sighs, and stretches out his hand. Antoine takes it, and raises it gently to his lips.
"I feel better." It's true. The worst of the aches have eased from his joints, and he is neither too hot nor too cold, and his stomach does not feel as if it is about to clench tight and heave out the weak broth he managed to drink.
"Good." Antoine's smile dies away, and he leans in, his eyes sharp and warning. "And you are never touching another grain of opium. Do you promise me?"
The very word opium makes Konstin shiver. "I promise."
A/N: Please leave a review and let me know what you think!
Up next: Marguerite, and much medicine.