A/N: This chapter was supposed to be part of a much longer chapter, but I decided it was getting out of hand so I cut it. That other chapter should appear in a few days.

In other news, by populardemand I will upload a family tree to my Tumblr,littlelonghairedoutlaw, tomorrow. Keep an eye out for that.

Flicker of golden eyes, fading into the darkness. A pale face floats before him, one eye covered the other closed, lips parted, tinged blue. His fingers ache to stretch out, to trace the cheek of that face, feel the cool skin beneath their tips. Learn the face, love it.

The name is on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. Something with a "c", or a "k". Hard, then soft. As soft as his hands, the hands that match with that face, wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer for two bodies to meet.

Two bodies. One body. One body carried on his back through the fog, over scarred, pitted earth. Screeches of shells, cries of men, and that body on his back, head lolling limply.

That body. Most precious body in the world. Most precious of them all…

The golden eyes flicker again in the darkness, staring at that pale face, sadness tugging at their edges. The golden eyes that led him through the darkness.

He draws a breath, pain shooting across his belly, and the darkness flows over him, drowning eyes, face, and all.

Raoul has given up on trying to persuade her to sleep. He convinced her to go as far as their bed, and lie down where he can hold her easier. But sleep? Sleep is completely out of the question.

She tries to think of Konstin as a little boy, tries to remember him burrowing in against her and pleading with her for a story about papa, his papa. Erik. But the memories are worn, faint, the soft clutch of his hands lost, and when she tries to reach for them, tries to reach for the little boy Konstin was across thirty years, they slip between her fingers, and she can't catch him, can't find him, sees only a man with his father's eyes, plucking the strings of a violin with long fingers and staring into the cloudy distance, as if staring could put an end to the dull thunder of guns so far away, too close.

When did that boy become that man? When? And why are they lost to her now, boy and man both? Why?

His eyes flutter open, and a face hovers over him, a different face than before, a wisp of auburn hair falling over the forehead from beneath a white hat. The face smiles slightly, brown eyes kind.

"Your pulse is quite normal, Commandant." Her voice is lilting, the accent of the country, drawing up an image of golden sun on wheat. "Your temperature is a little high, but nothing to worry about. Your surgery went well." Surgery? Someone said something about surgery a long time ago, a face like his own, brow furrowed and features pinched. Mar…Marguerite! It was Marguerite, and his own voice asked her to take care…to take care of Konstin.

Konstin.

It comes tumbling back to Antoine all at once. Konstin in the shell crater. Carrying Konstin on his back. Jolting and pain. The pinch of needles in his arm, and Marguerite, his hand folded between her fingers, promising that she would stay with Konstin, would not leave him alone. "Wh—where—"

The girl, the nurse, shushes him softly. "No. Don't try to speak yet. Your sister, Marguerite, she was here a little while ago, but she was so worn out that she fell asleep beside you, and Matron insisted she go to bed. That's where she is now, in bed. I can send for her for you, if you want."

But he is already shaking his head before she is finished. "No. No. Konstin. Where—"

Her face frowns, puzzled, but then realisation dawns in her eyes. "Kons—Oh! Commandant Daaé. Marguerite says that's what you all call him. Why, he's in the next bed over, if you just turn your head." She says something more, words which are drowned out, which do not matter as he turns his head and finds Konstin where she promised, lying in the next bed, his face pale and the blankets pulled up to his chin. Asleep. Asleep, but there. Asleep but alive, as Antoine can see by the rise and fall of the blankets with his breath. Alive. And tears burn Antoine's eyes, but they don't matter, don't matter a damn thing when Konstin is there, is safe, and the tears blur his vision, and the nurse is wiping them away, is murmuring gently, but the words don't matter, and none of it matters. And the force of his relief is such that it pulls him back under to the darkness.

And when his fingers twitch, he could swear he feels someone else's between them.

Marguerite knows the moment Antoine loses consciousness because his fingers loosen in her own. Part of her aches to have been here while he was awake, fully awake, to have spoken to him and have him reply. But a larger part of her is relieved to see him sleep. When he is asleep, she does not have to see the worry in his eyes each time he looks at Konstin.

And she is too tired, too hollow inside, to pretend for him that everything is all right.

It was difficult enough to downplay matters in the letters she wrote, one to her mother, one to Christine. Yes, she told both of them about the wound Antoine suffered, and the wounds that Konstin has, but it was not easy, not even with both of them recovering after surgery.

It was difficult enough to send telegrams, vague even as they are. But letters? With letters she is expected to go into detail, expected to reveal what happened to both of them, and she could not say the things she really meant for fear of worrying her mother and Christine further.

She could not write that Konstin's surgery had come close.

It is Minette's own word, close. And it is the word she used when Marguerite asked her how things had gone. "It was close," she said, her eyes sorry. "It was very close." And close, in Minette's world, can mean anything from a sudden drop in blood pressure to the discovery of terrible internal bleeding to simply stopping breathing, and it was on the tip of Marguerite's tongue to ask Minette what, exactly, she meant by close, but the nausea churning in her gut told her that she is better off not knowing.

A whimper draws Marguerite's attention, but it is not from Antoine. Antoine's face is still smooth, unlined in sleep thanks to the morphine, and when she hears a second whimper she looks over her shoulder and finds Konstin's face contorted, his brow furrowed. He moans, gasps, and she sets Antoine's hand down and turns her chair so that she is facing him instead.

"Konstin," she whispers, taking his good hand and squeezing it. "Konstin, you're all right. You're all right, I promise."

His uncovered eye flickers open, the golden hue in his iris shining bright, but he looks right over her shoulder, right past her as if she is not there at all, and his lips form words that she cannot read until he whimpers a clear, drawn out "Annn…Annnnt—"

"Sssshhh, Konstin." She presses her finger to his lips to try and quiet him, but he shakes his head and a tear trickles from the corner of his eye.

"Ant…Antoine."

Antoine. Antoine. Does Konstin know? Was he there? They were in the ambulance together. Surely that means that he knows. He was hardly unconscious through all of that.

Marguerite swallows the lump in her throat, and smooths her hand over his hair. The bandage around his head is hiding most of his it, and what is not hidden has thin strands of silver through it, clear now after being washed. It is an incongruous thing to notice, such a particular detail, and her heart aches. Grey hair. Konstin never had grey hair before.

"He's right here, Konstin." She keeps her voice low, as soothing as she can so as not to upset him more. "He's right here in the next bed." And gently, she helps him to turn his head.

His breath falters the moment he catches sight of Antoine, and he sighs, his fingers twitching in her hand. He does not speak, does not breathe a single word, but the pain and worry in his eyes, pain that morphine can do nothing for, are so clear that he does not need to speak.

"He is going to be all right now." And still her voice is soft, as soft as it can be. "He's just sleeping. The morphine is making him tired, and he needs all of the rest he can get, but he will be all right." Should be all right, if he does not develop any infection, she amends in her mind but does not add. And for long minutes, long minutes that Marguerite dare not count, Konstin simply stares at Antoine without making a sound, not a whimper, not a moan. And she feels as if she is intruding on something private, on something too intimate for words, and the hairs prickle uncomfortably on the back of her neck, but she stays sitting there, simply holding Konstin's hand, until his grip slackens and his eye flickers closed, and he sighs.

Her fingers gently seek out the pulse in his wrist, to reassure herself more than anything, and finds it beating steady but weak. Still weak. Weaker than she would like but perhaps to be expected. And swallowing hard, she sets his hand down, drawing the blankets up tighter around him. It would not do to let him get cold

The hollowness inside of her has not eased. Instead, having seen the tender way in which Konstin could look at Antoine, even full of morphine, the hollowness seems only to have grown, a yawning chasm inside of her chest. They are together, each knowing the other is beside him, and what use is she here? What can she do only hover and worry?

And Matron will not let her lift a finger to do anything else, not for another day at least until she can be certain that donating blood has not had any adverse reaction on her.

It's just…just so frustrating, and flexing her fingers to ease the stiffness from them, Marguerite stands and walks out, leaving both Konstin and Antoine sleeping peacefully. She should go to her quarters, and sleep too for a time. She would if she were sensible. But even knowing Antoine and Konstin are peaceful for now she cannot settle. There are so many things that can still go wrong, so many possible infections, and they both had abdominal surgery which only makes it worse, and Konstin has his myriad other wounds. How can she rest now?

No. She cannot go back to the nurses' quarters, and her feet carry her, almost without realising it, down the hall to the small ward where Dupuis is with a handful of other wounded officers.

And she stops short at the door.

Matron is in there, standing at Dupuis' side and blocking Marguerite's view of his face, and Lefevre is palpating Dupuis' abdomen, his hands poking and pressing on the skin. His abdomen? But, he had no abdominal wound.

Even at this distance, she can tell that Lefevre is frowning.

Matron says something, a question by the tone of it though Marguerite does not catch the words. Lefevre shakes his head, and Marguerite swallows, her breath catching in her throat as she strains to listen.

"No…seems to be a bleed…likely small at first…asymptomatic…still continuing…abdomen is rigid and tender, particularly around the spleen… would explain the blood pressure and pulse…prepare him for surgery…"

It feels as if the world has stopped spinning, simply stalled, and all of the air has drained from it. Marguerite's knees buckle, and she lurches, catches herself on the wall. Not another surgery. Not for Dupuis, no. It can't be. He barely survived the last one! He can't—he won't— But Lefevre is still palpating his stomach and frowning, and her vision blurs, blood rushing in her ears. Please, God, not Dupuis. Let him come through safe, please.

"Mamma." Émile's voice is soft, and Christine raises her head to find him standing in the doorway, his face ashen and an envelope in his hand. "There's a telegram for you, Mamma."

Her stomach churns at the very thought. A telegram. Another telegram. A telegram to tell her her boy is officially missing. Or, or a telegram to tell her he has been taken prisoner, or a telegram—a telegram telling her that her boy, her precious boy, is dead. Not a telegram. Anything but a telegram.

Distantly she feels herself sit up, and stretch out her hand. The paper of the envelope brushes her palm and she pulls it to her, her fingers trembling, heart pounding, as she opens it.

She reads the words, but she cannot understand them. It is as if they are another language. As if they are about somebody else, somebody else's son so far away and not her own. Tears blur her vision and she blinks them away, the words still making no sense.

Raoul tenses beside her and whispers, "Is he—" But even he cannot finish the thought, and she can hear his breaths coming short through the fog that dulls her senses, that makes it so hard to think.

His fingers are gentle as they ease the telegram from her hand, and he inhales sharply.

Émile's voice trembles, and he sounds so very young, so much younger than sixteen, as he asks, "What is it, Papa? Mamma?"

Raoul clears his throat. "It—it's from Marguerite. I—it says, Konstin here. Stop. Gravely wounded. Stop. Surgery went well. Stop. Antoine also wounded. Stop. More to follow by letter. final stop." His voice is faint as he murmurs, "He's alive."

Alive. Alive. The word echoes through Christine's brain, and relief bubbles briefly in her heart, but it is that phrase that her mind snags on, that chills her blood and leaves her cold, that phrase gravely wounded. Wounded. Grave.

Fear twists new in her stomach, icy fear that leaves her nauseous. Alive, but wounded. Wounded, but alive.

Grave.

Gravely ill. That was what Darius said to her, once, so long ago. Erik is gravely ill. And she knew. She knew in her heart what it meant, what he meant. And barely an hour later, Erik was dead, dead in her arms, his head heavy on her shoulder and she can still feel it, can still feel the last shuddering breath he took.

And now Konstin, gravely wounded. Likely dying, dying so far away from her and she can't go to him, can't take him in her arms, can't hold him and promise he'll be all right, he'll get well, can't tell him she loves him, loves him so very much, and the very thought of him lying dying feels as if someone has reached into her chest and pulled her heart out and it's so hard to breathe, so hard, and she finds herself bent over, Raoul's fingers tapping the back of her neck trying to distract her, trying to cut her thoughts short and Émile's voice is still trembling as he whispers, "He'll be all right, Mamma, he'll be all right," and she wishes she could believe him, wishes she could cling to those words but she can't, she can't, and all she can see is Konstin stretched before her, his face white and blood trailing from his lips. And Raoul pulls her to him, Raoul holds her close, and she can feel his heart pounding beneath her ear but all she wants is Konstin, only Konstin.

A figure in black settles at the edge of his bed, blurred with the dullness of his vision. His fingers twitch upon the sheets, but he has not the strength to raise them, the pain heavy and distant in his arm. There's someone he should be looking for, someone who was here before, lying beside him, but he can't…can't think, can't remember.

He groans, or must, because a voice is shushing him softly, a voice he has never heard before and yet his heart twists and he gasps.

"Konstantin," the voice is soft, cool fingers brushing against his cheek. "Do not try to move, dear boy, just rest." Golden eyes frown slightly, that cool hand resting on his forehead.

The name comes to him through the haze, stiff on his lips. "Papa."

"Ssshhh." One cool finger presses to his lips, silencing him. "Don't say a word. You'll only waste your strength."

Already the darkness is creeping back in, blazing streaks of shellfire against the insides of his eyelids. The world flickers and he gasps, his chest aching, thrott tight and burning and he can't breathe can't breathe can't—

"Ssshhh. Ssshhh." Soft singing reaches his ears, catches his heart in a language that swims deep in his mind, the impression of soft silks and jade eyes, and he heard that song so many times, sung to him softly in his boyhood so long ago, but the voice is different now, the voice…

"That's it, my son. That's it. Deep breaths."

The air whistles in his throat, freer now, easier, and he gasps, the pain blooming beneath his heart.

"The pain will not trouble you long, I promise."

And the voice is right. Hardly have the words reached his ears when the pain eases, ebbs away, those cool fingers curled around his hand. "Papa. Papa." His lips form the name almost in spite of himself, over and over again, a string of Papa papa papa and this time the voice does not shush him, merely murmurs softly something he can't understand, that slips over him as soft as a wave.

"Don't…go." He slurs the words, groping across the sheets until the cool hand takes his own again, the golden eyes crinkled soft and sad.

"I'll stay as long as you want me to."

He nods, his neck stiff and sore and murmurs, "Good." There is so much, so much he's wanted to tell that voice, all his life, but the words won't come. He swallows, sighs, the voice soft in his ear whispering, "Sleep easy, my boy. Just sleep."

Just sleep.

Just

sleep.

Thin, cool lips, pressed to his forehead, are the last thing that he feels before he slips into the darkness.

A/N: As ever, please leave a review!

Up Next: Christine pays a visit to someone important and Marguerite spends time in deep contemplation