Dupuis' hand is limp in hers, and she twines the chain of her Saint Anthony with his fingers. His eyes are heavy with the morphine, watching her dully. He was delirious, earlier, when he woke, and Minette who was in the room changing the dressings of an amputee (left arm, just above the elbow) had a difficult time trying to settle him, trying to assure him that he was all right. It was her who gave him the extra dose of morphine, the only way to ensure he could get some rest as the gas from the surgery left his system.

It was Minette who, afterwards, found her in the chapel to tell her that he wanted to see her, wanted her to sit with him, for a time. So Marguerite went to him, and when she took his hand and asked how he feels now, Capitaine? he blinked heavily at her, and whispered, his lips barely moving, call me Edou…ard.

Edouard. She can call him Edouard but she cannot think of him as that. That would be getting too close, developing an attachment. They must not use first names. That is the cardinal rule.

She is not certain she has ever been able to remember the first name of any other man who has passed through they have all blurred so that even their faces are hazy. But Edou—Dupuis could never be hazy.

He is not merely pale, but pallid, skin blanched and clammy and locks of dark hair sticking to his forehead. With her hand that is not holding his she smooths that hair back, presses her wrist to his throat to feel his pulse.

(Still fast, still too fast as it beats against hers, and she tells herself it is the blood loss, tells herself it is the strain of the second surgery, tells herself it will stabilise soon, but if having her pulse resting against his would match his to hers, then she would keep her wrist there for as long as it takes.)

It was Konstin. He wanted to know how Konstin is now, only he called him Com…man…dant Die…ay the words fractured with his weakness and the thickness of his tongue. And she told him that he was resting now, and left out the part that it feels like a check in her heart each time she sees him, each time she thinks of how very frail he is, and that Konstin has not enquired how he, Dupuis, is doing, because each time he has woken he has not been quite conscious, has only wanted to know about Antoine.

Antoine. It always comes back to Antoine. And with Antoine it always seems to come back to Konstin, and something about it, something about both of them, niggles something at the back of her mind, and she cannot decipher what feels so strange about the way they ask after each other.

It is so very different to how Dupuis asks after Konstin. With Dupuis there is concern. But with Antoine, with Konstin, there is an undercurrent of an ache in their voices, an edge of desperation, as if their own lives depend on the answer.

It must be because of Antoine finding Konstin out there. It must be.

"Marguerite." Amélie's voice pulls Marguerite from her thoughts, and from the side of her eye as she turns her head she sees Dupuis sigh. Amélie is biting her lip, always a sign that she is troubled, and as she jerks her head Marguerite gently sets Dupuis' hand down on the bed, and fixes the sheets covering him.

"Just rest for a little while," she murmurs, and he nods, his eyes slipping closed. Her Saint Anthony is still twined with his fingers, and for a moment she hesitates over whether or not to ease it from his grip, but in the next moment she resolves to leave it with him. Let it be some protection to him now.

(He needs it more than her.)

Slowly, she raises herself from her chair and quietly leaves the room to stand beside Amélie, her stomach churning as she eyes the way she bites her lip. Please don't let it be Antoine or Konstin. Please. "What is it?" she keeps her voice low, so as neither Dupuis nor any of the other wounded men in rooms on either side of the hall can hear. It can only be bad news when Amélie is calling her out.

But it not Antoine, or Konstin. The way Amélie's fingers curl around hers confirm that, the slight squeeze of reassurance. It is not them, but the moment she speaks, Marguerite's blood runs cold.

"Matron says we need your help." She, too, keeps her voice low. "We need to send as many convalescents away as possible. There's an ambulance convoy expected in the next few hours."

It was Italy, Italy where they got together. It happened one night outside of Rome, the sky above them a canopy of twinkling stars that made Konstin's eyes shine as if they were jewels. They both had had too much wine, and Antoine was feeling poetic, trying to compose lyrics aloud by the campfire, and Konstin was plucking the strings of his violin, his fingers long and elegant. And it was whatever way Antoine looked at him, at the curve of his cheek and the angle of his nose, the soft curl of his hair against the nape of his neck, whatever way he looked at Konstin that took his breath away, made his heart stall, and in the next moment Antoine had leaned in and pressed his lips to Konstin's.

It only took a moment, a moment in which Konstin sighed, and leaned closer to Antoine and then he was kissing him back as they fell to the ground, violin and poetry forgotten.

The memory comes to Antoine now, drifts to him through the haze of his brain. The press of Konstin's body, the soft flick of his tongue against Antoine's own, the heady must of chianti on his lips, the way he moaned as Antoine slipped a hand up his shirt, felt the warmth of his skin, fingers smoothing the trail of hair leading from his navel.

One night in Italy. And the rest of their lives since.

It was by the bank of the lake under the Garnier that they pledged their lives to each other, five years later. They had both graduated from Saint-Cyr as lieutenants, and went down there one night in their uniforms. And Konstin had never looked so dashing as he did that night with his hair combed back. The rings were Antoine's own idea. He had measured Konstin's finger one night as he slept, his hand resting on Antoine's hip. And tears trickled down Konstin's cheek as Antoine slipped the ring onto his finger, and kissed it, and for a long time they stood together on the bank, just wrapped in each other's arms, holding on.

(Afterwards they crossed the lake in the little boat, Konstin piloting it, and in the little house hidden away they played music on the phonograph Konstin installed there years earlier, and danced, and drank some of the stock of thirty-year old wine, dark with age, and they slept the night on the divan wrapped in each other's arms.)

Caught half between the worlds of waking and sleeping, the thought drifts to Antoine that maybe, maybe if they ever get back to Paris, he will venture down beneath the Garnier and bring up a couple of bottles of that wine, as a gift for Konstin, to celebrate their—their still being alive.

Why do they need to celebrate being alive? Of course, they are alive.

The fact there is even a question of their being alive troubles Antoine, and he frowns as he opens his eyes expecting to find Konstin's face, expecting Konstin to berate him that soft way for being dramatic, but he finds only an unfamiliar woman, smiling kindly, and pain throbbing beneath his ribs.

"I've changed your dressings, Commandant." Her voice is low, but her words are puzzling.

Dressings? Why, why would he have dress—Oh. It comes back to him, slowly, the memory of getting shot. The memory of hands clutching him, of leaving Konstin.

Where is Konstin?

In the other bed, someone told him a long time ago, the other bed. And Antoine turns his head, blinking heavily, and finds him there, his face slack with sleep.

"He is resting comfortably, now, and in a little while we will tend to his dressings too." The nurse's voice is still low, and the very kindness of it seeps into Antoine's bones, makes him sigh.

That's good, he thinks, lips too stiff to speak, his eyes fluttering closed. Tend to him all he needs you to. Keep him comfortable.

And he drops off into sleep again almost without realising it.

Pain. Pain in his arms, pain in his legs, pain in his chest and his head and his face. A world of burning pain but he cannot move, cannot ease the pressure, must keep pressing and pressing and—

The blood keeps welling up between his fingers, sticky and hot and scarlet against the white of his skin, trickling in a dark stream over the back of his hand. Where are his gloves? He is supposed to be wearing gloves, dammit! Did he lose them out there? No time to think of that now, must keep the pressure on. Pressure stops bleeding if there's enough pressure, but there must not be enough pressure even with both of his hands leaning down heavily because the blood is spreading, spreading and staining the fabric of the uniform, leaving it wet and heavy and too tough to cut through, too tough to pull away, but he must do something, do something because the boy is bleeding out beneath him, and even the torn piece of shirt he's using to keep pressure on the wound is slick now with blood.

A stomach wound. A bullet deep into the abdomen, and the blood keeps coming and coming, the boy gurgling but Konstin cannot look at him, cannot bear to see his face, to see how ashen he must be, that pallor of death creeping over him, his eyes hollow staring at ghosts that nobody else can see. And all his mind is a litany of can't let him die can't let him die can't let him die can't let him but the boy is dying, dying because there's too much bleeding and if Konstin shifts his hands, tries to pull the uniform open to try to plug the bullet hole (damn the risk of infection, infection can be looked after later but if Konstin doesn't plug the hole there won't be a later and dammit dammit where is all this blood coming from?) if he shifts his hands even a fraction more blood simply comes pouring out.

Beneath him the boy gasps, gasps and shifts, the gasps of the dying, with long moments of silence stretching between them so that all Konstin can hear is the distant crash of shells, cracks of pistols, until the boy takes another rattling gasp. He counts the seconds between breaths, leaning down with all his weight. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Fort—a gasp. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. A gasp and Konstin is pulling open his uniform, pulling it open, the buttons popping off, and pulling the shirt open stiff with blood and the undershirt is black with blood, drenched and how long has it been since the boy has taken a breath? Seventy seconds? He's lost count, nothing but stillness beneath him and the undershirt opens beneath his knife, blood welling out of the bullet hole in the centre of the boy's stomach and faintly Konstin hears a weak huff of air and his fingers are fumbling at the boy's throat, leaving streaks of blood behind but he can feel nothing, no throb of a pulse, no faint beat beneath his fingers nothing, and the boy takes another gurgling breath, Konstin's knuckles rubbing his chest, digging into his breastbone, willing him to breathe, just to breathe, just breathe.

But the boy does not draw a breath. He just lies there, utterly still, and when Konstin, at last, lays the palm of his hand flat on the boy's chest he can feel nothing, no fluttering of the heart within, and tears sting his eyes as he leans back, every fibre of him numb and aching.

And as he leans back, he catches sight of the boy's face. He looks young, too young to even be a soldier, a trail of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. With stiff fingers Konstin wipes it away, and reaches to close his eyes.

And stops.

The eyes. Half-open blue eyes staring at the sky. The same shade of blue as Konstin's own mother.

The same shade of blue as Émile.

(No.)

And the same blond hair, muddy now (No, no, no). The same soft chin, and delicate fingers (No not him. Not him. He's supposed to be home. Supposed to be safe. Mamma said he's become an orderly not—not—and it's so hard to breathe, so hard, his chest tightening, lungs burning), and Konstin's fingers are stiff no more, are shaking, shaking as he brushes the mud from that hair, as he closes those eyes, and tears blur his vision, trickle wet down his cheeks.

Distantly, he hears someone call his name. "Konstin, Konstin, you're all right, Konstin, you're all right," the voice hoarse and oh so dear to him, pulling him away from his little brother dead on the ground, and he opens his eyes (he thought his eyes were already open?)

He opens his eyes and blinks to clear them, blinks to see anything through the darkness, tears damp on his cheeks. Where is he? He cannot tell but it comes to him that he is lying down, lying down in—in a bed?

He turns his head, pain jarring through him, and his eyes meet a pair of brown eyes, looking at him creased with worry.

Brown eyes. Antoine? What? Where is Émile? Émile—

Antoine smiles at him, his face pale, and he opens his mouth to speak but Konstin cannot hear the words, not through the echoing shellfire in his ears. And in the next moment, the darkness overwhelms him again, visions of blood and mud-stained blond hair following him.

"…at least they're with Marguerite, that they have someone they know." But Sorelli's face is pale, and even to Christine's ears the words are cold comfort.

Silence falls again, Sorelli studiously looking away with tears glistening in her dark eyes, and Christine wraps her fingers tighter around her cup of tea, as if the warmth of it can ease the aching inside of her chest.

It was Raoul who made the tea for them, a pot of it before he sequestered himself away with Philippe. Christine has not seen them in two hours, both of them in conference over what's happened. She suspects they are drinking cognac and smoking cigars, and trying to decide how best to gather more information other than by studying whatever Marguerite may have written in her letter.

The letter has not arrived yet. Christine keeps expecting it by the next post, though there's already been two postal deliveries today and neither of them had the letter in it. She is not certain she wants to read it, not certain she wants to know how badly Konstin is injured. Without the letter, she can pretend that it is not all that serious, that all it means is that he will be invalided home to recover and she will have the comfort of knowing, for a time, that he is safe, wholly safe away from the fighting.

But even as she tries to delude herself, that little word grave echoes in her mind again and shatters every one of the lies she tries to tell herself. And to even think about having the confirmation of it in her hand, the description of what has happened to him—

He will be all right, Mamma, Émile whispered to her so long ago, he will be all right, and even now the words echo in her brain, and in spite of everything, in spite of what has happened, she is grateful that he, too, is not at the Front. If he had been in the same unit as Konstin—

She shudders inwardly, and sips her tea, which is still warm thanks to the blue and green cosy around it. She lets her eyes linger on the cosy, as if it can insulate her against the coming of any more news just as it insulates the tea from the cold, and it is one, she remembers, that Guillaume brought back after visiting England. She has the matching one at home.

Even with Konstin and Antoine wounded (and Christine's stomach churns), Guillaume is safe thanks to his furlough, and for something to say, something other than speculation about the extent of wounds, she asks, "When is Guillaume due home?"

Sorelli sighs, and fingers the blue bauble on top of thecosy. "Byfirst train in the morning. I wish," her voice cracks, and she swallows, and Christine reaches over and lays her hand on top of Sorelli's own, and Sorelli's lips twitch but the smile is sad, "I wish he did not have to come home to news like this."

He has never considered himself squeamish. It would be a decidedly improper thing in an officer, to be squeamish, though the sights of blood and wounds have never made him feel weak. But in spite of his great ability to stomach such things, Antoine cannot bear to watch as the nurses change Konstin's dressings. He closes his eyes, and tightens his fingers in the linen sheets covering him, (he never expected there would be linen sheets in the hospital. Perhaps it is because of his rank) and tries to focus on his breathing to tune out the instructions of carbolic solution, iodide powder, clear that drain, have you checked those stitches?, more gauze, and all the time Konstin whimpering, his whimpers punctuating their words.

He has been more restless in these last few hours than he was before, whimpering and moaning, and shifting in the bed, though he never wakes, not properly, sometimes his eyes fluttering open to rove the room before closing again. Is it dreams that are making him whimper so? Or is it the pain, the pain making itself felt even through the morphine?

Morphine. There is something about, something about Konstin and morphine, but what it is is just outside of Antoine's reach, and try as he may he cannot grasp it.

Oh, he is so tired, every fibre of him too heavy to move. It would be easy to sleep, so easy to just drift off. But he cannot sleep now, not when Konstin's whimpers keep breaking into his thoughts, reminding him of the pain he is in. If he could—if he could he would reach across the gap between their beds and take his hand and squeeze it so that he would know he is safe, but if he did that then the nurses would see, those nurses who are probing Konstin and cleaning his stitches with that solution that stings, that Guillaume complained over after he broke his leg, and if the nurses saw they would think it strange, might get suspicious, and then they would not be safe at all.

Antoine's arm is too heavy to try to stretch across that distance anyway.

He clenches his fingers tighter, as if the sheets were Konstin's hand, and tries to tune out the whimpers. It is doing Konstin a disservice to tune out his pain, to not acknowledge it, but Antoine is so tired, and so helpless to do anything about it, and he cannot bear to hear another moan from those lips. There were so many of them earlier, before he woke and looked at Antoine with those eyes that hardly seemed to know where he was, hardly seemed to know who Antoine was.

It was a nightmare then, it must have been. He has had so many nightmares lately. He has confided them in Antoine when they've been behind the lines together. So many nightmares playing tricks on his mind, all thanks to this damn war.

The tears are hot on his cheeks, and he raises his hand to roughly wipe them away. "Are you in any pain, Commandant?" The nurse's voice is soft, concerned, and he opens his eyes to find her looking at him with concern, the face he has seen so many times now, threads of auburn hair poking out from under her hat. What was it she asked? Pain? Is he in any pain?

A small bit, twinging under his ribs if he moves, but not true pain, not pain that she can do anything for, not when Konstin needs all the help he can get.

He shakes his head, and out of the side of his eye sees another nurse sleeping a needle into the crook of Konstin's elbow and injecting a hypodermic of—maybe of morphine. And almost immediately the creases smooth from Konstin's face, and he sighs.

Antoine swallows and whispers, "No. No pain", and tries not to think that Konstin's face isgreyer than it was before.

Hardly have the last of the convalescents been sent to the train when the first ambulances start rolling in, and Marguerite and Minette are tasked with taking the wounded out of them and dividing them into sections. The ones who need immediate surgery, and the ones who need fluids and heat before surgery, go to the right wing of the château. The ones able to walk she sends to an outbuilding, where Sophie and another nurse, Angélique, are deciding who can go to the train, and who needs more treatment. And those who do not need surgery but are stretcher-cases nonetheless she sends to the left wing of the chateau, ready to be divided into rooms and wards.

Many of those have already had their amputations carried out, either at the lines or in the dressing stations. And many more of them have been gassed.

It is not the living wounded who trouble Marguerite, but the dead. The living she can still do something for, but the dead all she can do is have them carried to the stables, where the curé is blessing each corpse though it is too late to give any of them Unction. And as she climbs into another ambulance, and finds one man gasping for breath thanks to the shrapnel in his lungs (she sends him straight for surgery, waiting any longer could kill him) and two more already dead (one with shrapnel in his throat, the other with several bullets in his chest and belly) she cannot help but wonder if their ghosts have been left behind on the battlefield, forever trapped in the fog.

The very thought makes her shudder, and her fingers tremble as she checks the dressings on another soldier's stump of a leg.

(The blood is soaking through the bandage. He needs fluids and more surgery.)

For hours she works like that, feeling pulses and staunching bleeding and giving instructions. Two men die beneath her hands, one as she is rubbing his chest willing him to breathe, her fingers still able to feel the faint pulse that flickered beneath her fingers a moment before disappearing. The other clings to her, his fingers tangled in the sleeve of her blood-stained uniform, blood bubbling out of a wound in his chest that the dressings have slipped off, his lips forming the words of the Salve Regina even as the light dimmed from his eyes.

..Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevæ,

Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes...

She finished the prayer for him, gently making the sign of the cross on his forehead, and when his fingers slackened she set his hand down next to him, and closed his eyes, and wiped away the tears that trickled down her cheeks.

She cannot think. If she lets herself think she might scream. There is only the work, only the endless work of stopping the bleeding and cleaning the mud away.

It is Amélie who relieves her, after grabbing a cup of coffee on her run from the operating theatre.

"Five minutes," she gasps, "and then Matron wants you…on the resuscitation ward."

Marguerite nods, already climbing into another ambulance. There are line of ambulances still coming, and the oil lamp (When did it get dark enough that she needs an oil lamp?) that an orderly, Pierre, passes into the ambulance is the only light that she has to see by.

"All right."

A/N: This chapter took a bit of wrestling to get to where I'm happy with it, but I don't think I'm going to get happier! As ever, thank you for reading and please do let me know what you think.

Up next: Telegrams. A guest calls on Christine and Raoul. Infection begins to set in.

Edit: Re-posting this chapter, because when I first tried to post it I ended up posting chapter 12 for a second time, and 12 was good but not good enough for a double post!