A/N: I had hoped to have this chapter ready several days ago, but a few bad mental health days prevented me actually writing it. I'm feeling better now, so hopefully the next chapter will not take too long!
As before, Matron insisted that Marguerite not follow Konstin into surgery. "Go to bed," she said, her eyes gentle but firm. "Get some rest. You've had a long day already." And Marguerite was too exhausted to protest, had too much worry clawing inside of her, so she nodded. There was not a hope that she could sleep with Konstin in surgery, and so she took up a seat beside Antoine, and tried not to think, tried to focus only on her brother, on the slight shiftings of his face in sleep. But her every thought went back to Konstin, back to that red flush across his cheeks from the fever, and Lefevre's grave look as he palpated his stomach.
It was Antoine who woke her from her thoughts, when he groaned with the coming of wakefulness. And she tried to shush him, tried to keep him from turning his head and finding Konstin missing because she knew, she knew it would upset him, would panic him, and she was right because the moment Antoine caught sight of the empty bed next to him she heard the breath catch in his throat, and felt it as he trembled, his fingers twitching between her own. And she hated doing it, hated it with every fibre of her being, but it was the only way to keep him calm, to keep him from hurting himself. So without a word, without a single word she took the bottle of morphine from her pocket, and the syringe and needle from the other, and measured out a dose.
The stomach-churning feeling of sliding the needle into her brother's vein is one she knows she will never forget.
"He's in surgery," she whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady. "That's all, Antoine. He's just in surgery. He'll be all right, he'll be all right." And she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him until the trembling eased from his body, helped more by the morphine than her words, and his breathing evened back into that of sleep.
Better, she told herself, slipping the morphine back into her pocket, that he not upset himself in his condition. And she held his hand tighter, and tried to pray, but the words were clumsy on her lips, the Latin muddled, and she sighed and closed her eyes.
It was Amélie who woke her, who stirred her from the doze she did not realise she was in with a gentle hand on her shoulder, and it took Marguerite a moment to see that Konstin was back from surgery, settled into his bed with the sheets pulled back up to his chin, his face paler (if possible) than it was before.
"It went well." Amélie's voice was soft, and groggy though she was all Marguerite could think was that well is such a relevant term, can mean so many different things, and as if he sensed what she was thinking Konstin whimpered, and shifted slightly, and she knew she could stay there no longer, knew she could not bear to see him so ill.
"I—I'll be with Capitaine Dupuis," she murmured, and stood, her legs stiff, fingers aching as she set Antoine's hand back down, his fingers still loose in her grip.
"You should get some sleep." And tired though she was, there was no way Marguerite could mistake the undercurrent of worry in Amélie's voice as she shook her head.
"I can't," she whispered, "I can't."
And that is how she came to be sitting back here, beside Dupuis though part of her mind whispers that he is Edouard, and there is a flush to his cheeks too, heat burning through his skin, and tears sting Marguerite's eyes, roll down her cheeks, so that she cannot see the flush of his cheeks, cannot see the pallor of his face, can see nothing only a blur of grey that she is too tired to blink away, the pain twisting in her heart that makes it so hard to breathe.
The longer Christine lies on the sofa the more her eyes stray to the photograph over the mantelpiece. It was taken when Émile was only a couple of months old, and he is nestled safe in Nadir's arms. Nadir is sitting in his armchair, a blanket draped around his shoulders. He was prone to getting chills in those days, and though Christine herself had not yet regained her full strength after the ordeal of Émile's birth, she often found herself worried about Nadir, and he would assure her, even with his voice hoarse, that he was perfectly all right, and would pat her hand gently.
Darius is sitting in an armchair beside Nadir in the photo, Anja only a little girl sitting in his lap. And Darius, too, was growing old then, had slowed down a great deal from how he used to be. He had not wanted to be in the photograph, had felt too conscious of himself, but Raoul had insisted, Christine remembers, and told him that he was family too.
Anja was always very close to him. And even in his later years, after Christine's marriage to Raoul when he and Nadir came to live with them and they had maids to handle the cooking and cleaning, Darius would insist on cooking and Anja, when she had gotten old enough, would sit in the kitchen and watch him, and he would patiently explain to her everything he did, and when she tried to help she would make a mess, but he would only smile at her and if she were anyone else he would throw her out of the kitchen.
Dear old Darius.
Christine's eyes wander away from him to the figure standing between the two armchairs, behind Nadir and Darius. Konstin, and pain briefly stabs in her heart to see him. It was just before he went to Persia, off on his own adventure with Antoine, and in a new dress suit with his hair combed back he looks so tall and elegant. And so very young, she thinks now. Elegant, and handsome, but young. He was only nineteen years, younger even than she was when she married Erik, but he looked every inch the gentleman, and tears prickle her eyes now to think of her son as he was then, so young and full of hope for the future.
She blinks the tears away, and swallows. It would not do to cry now, not over such sweet memories.
When he is well enough, when he comes home, back to Paris where she can see him, she will remind him of those days, and though he will be tired, and still so weak with his wounds, he will smile. She can almost see it now, and the thought of it eases some of the pain in her heart.
He will be well. He will.
Spray of blood, scarlet in the mist, hot on his face. It stands out dark on his hands, and he wipes them on his coat, fingers curling tight around his pistol. The wire drags against him, raking his skin through the fabric, stinging, piercing.
A crash, the mud falling around him, world spinning, spinning, spinning.
Bayonet plunging deep, and he twists, gurgling choking reaching his ears but he cannot look, must not look.
The water is up to his knees, cold, soaking through his trousers so that his legs are numb. And through the roars of men, through the crash of shells, he hears the soft pffft of a bullet piercing flesh. The man above him, standing on the ladder looking over the wall of the trench, sways, falls, and it takes him an age to fall, his body heavy in Konstin's arms, and Konstin is pulling at his clothes, tugging them open, blood welling out of a small, dark hole just beneath his heart, and Konstin feels his hand pressing into it, as if his hand does not belong to him, belongs to someone else, and his eyes catch the face, catch brown eyes and auburn-tinged blond hair and he lurches, his heart faltering, Antoine's eyes staring at him, staring past him, and the gurgling comes from his throat, comes and doesn't stop, and he is falling from Konstin's arms, falling, and the ground is hard beneath Konstin's back, his chest aching, stomach burning, and golden eyes hover over him, fingers brushing his cheek as the darkness creeps in, flows over him, pulls him down, down, down.
Konstin's murmurs seep into Antoine'a dreams, punctuate his every thought. Some of them are beyond comprehension, mangled words of French and Farsi interspersed with Russian and Italian, the language shifting sometimes within a single word so that the thread of it is impossible to trace, and Antoine's thoughts are too woolly to try to piece the fragments together. What dreams must he be wandering down? What broken memories?
Too many of them. Far too many of them. And Antoine is helpless to do anything but lie there, his fingers aching for to close the gap between their beds and take Konstin's hand and promise him that he is not alone. But when he tries to move, tries to lean a little closer, the pull of his own wound is sharp through the haze of his thoughts, and he gasps, sinking back down to the bed.
He can watch. Only watch, and listen to the whimpers and the broken moans. And sometimes Konstin's murmurs rise to a terrible coherency, a coherency that makes Antoine's heart twist painfully.
"...must s-sing Papa's song, Mamma..."
"...promise me you'll be careful...promise...couldn't bear if..."
"...don't go...don't go..."
Tears trickle from the corners of Antoine's eyes, roll down the side of his face, and he swallows, trying not to listen to those words, trying not to hear that voice, that beloved, dear voice, so thick and hoarse. But the words filter through, deep into his efforts to think of other things, to think of holding Konstin in his arms and kissing his hair so that all he can he hear is a whimpered, "Papa, no, Papa, no," and his eyes flicker open again, as if he expects to see Erik, expects that vision in black from what feels like a lifetime ago, but he finds only Konstin, whimpering, his face tilted towards the door so that Antoine cannot see it, cannot see the lines of pain that must surely be etched in it.
Not pain no. Not pain. He can't be in pain. He is not allowed to be pain. How can he be in pain with all of the morphine they've been giving him? It can't be pain it can't it just can't. The very thought of him being in pain is a crime. He is not supposed to know pain.
It is the fever. The fever that is making him murmur like this, the fever that makes him whimper. It cannot be pain.
The fever.
There was something about necrosis, wasn't there? So long ago? Something about necrosis and a second surgery and when the world flickered into view and there was no Konstin it was as if he had died, as if he was simply gone, but the voice was soft whispering to him that he was in surgery, that he would be all right but how can he be all right if he has a fever?
What Antoine would not give to be somewhere else, anywhere else. To not have to see this. To not have to listen to him, to not have to know that he is suffering like this. To be simply…to be simply unaware, oblivious, to be able to carry on and think well Konstin must be all right and not know that this is happening, that he is lying here like this.
But even as Antoine wishes to be somewhere else, he knows he could not bear it, not now. Not knowing that Konstin is so very ill, not knowing the way his breaths whistle, the way he groans in between murmurs.
If he could just take his hand, could just lean in and lay his head down on the pillow too so that they could be cheek to cheek, and whisper in his ear every soft word, every gentle thing he could think of. Just to be close to him and not—not barely out of reach.
Just to hold him. Just to touch him. They seem such simple things, so simple, but Antoine's heart aches with the very thought that he can't, that it is impossible, and that ache on top of all of the other aches and the writhing nausea in his stomach makes his throat tighten, and he lies there, just lies there, and tries to breathe.
INFECTION STOP SECOND SURGERY STOP WENT WELL STOP DOING ALL THEY CAN FINAL STOP
Raoul read the telegram before he gave it to her, and his face was carefully impassive as he passed it over, and Christine knew, she knew it could not be good news. Her heart pounded the words, don't let him be dead don't let him have died, but she did not expect this, did not expect to see such an awful word infection. And though the telegram does not have any name, does not specify Konstin or Antoine, it does not need to, and as Christine's eyes meet Raoul's again, sees his own brimming tears threatening to spill, the telegram slips from her fingers.
Infection. Infection. The very word feels like a noose tightening around her throat, and a tremor runs through her.
"I—" she breathes, swallows, "I—I'm going to visit Erik." What else can she do? She cannot go to Konstin, cannot be with him, and she is no surgeon, no doctor. She pushes the word infection from her mind, and clenches her hands tight, drawing a breath to steady herself.
Raoul merely nods, and presses his lips gently to her forehead.
"All right. All right."
No nose. But how could he just have no nose? It makes no sense. Was it just a hollow in his face? A gaping hole? Or was there skin over it? He closes his eyes and tries to visualise a face without a nose, and with skin stretched tight across the bones. Raoul said one could see the veins through the skin, but surely it could not be possible for skin to be stretched so tight. And if it was possible, if it was more than Raoul's imagination, then he must have looked like he had spider webs branching out beneath his skin.
Spider webs beneath his skin and no nose. And Nadir has told him about the lips, about the way they twisted. And of course he already knows about the eyes because Mamma has told him, more than once, that he has his father's eyes.
But with golden eyes, and spider webs beneath his skin, and no nose, and twisted lips, it's not really a face at all, is it? It's more like, like some sort of a distorted skull presented as a grotesque in the backdrop of a painting. Not a face. Certainly not his father's face.
Antoine says he should stop thinking about these things, but how can he not think about these things? It is these things that have made him, and he certainly does not look like a skull so how could his father have looked like a skull? His nose does not even look like Mamma's, and if it doesn't look like Mamma's well then it must have come from Papa, and if it came from Papa then how did Papa just not have a nose?
He sighs and throws down the bow of his violin. It lands with a soft thud on the divan, and in the next moment his violin lands beside it. He needs a walk, just to go for a walk and forget all about it, and later, when she is back from the theatre, he will ask Mamma these questions about his father.
He should have asked her years ago.
As the nurse pulls the sheets back down from Konstin's neck, reveals the bandages wrapped around his body, Antoine cannot help his eyes falling to his neck. There is something missing, something that should be there and isn't. What—
His Saint Anthony. The wedding band.
Again, as if in a memory, he feels the warmth of Konstin's hand in his, feels himself slip the band onto his ring finger. Sees the way it shone in the dim lamplight. And he always wore it around his neck, hidden under his clothes. A secret from the world. Where is it? Why is it not there? It should be there. He never takes it off! He confessed once to sleeping with it and Antoine knows he does because he has slept with Konstin with that ring hanging on its chain and in the early morning light filtering through the blinds he cupped it in his hand.
Where is it? He didn't lose it out there he couldn't have. He lost his helmet, yes, but there is no way he could have lost two chains which were hidden under his shirt.
He's going to die. That's it. That must be it. Why else would he not have them? It's a sign. They've taken them off him because he's dying, he's dying, and Antoine's heart tightens, his lungs constricting, black spots dancing before him, and he can't breathe, can't breathe, how can he breathe when Konstin is going to stop? What other explanation can there be? He's dying, he's dying and they haven't told him, have taken his chains, and he can't die, he can't, Antoine needs him too much, he can't.
He's going to be sick. Oh, God, he's going to be sick, and the pain burns beneath his ribs, his throat burning as he retches, and there is a hand gentle on his shoulder, a voice whispering soft words, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters. Konstin is dying, how can anything else matter?
Amélie finds her sitting outside. The late evening breeze is cool on her face, sun casting dappled shadows through the leaves of the trees. Lying out here Marguerite can almost forget, for a little time, everything going on in the building behind her. The canopy of the tree shields her from the world, and it is like some of the trees on the old family estate, so very far away from here. She used to lie out there under the trees, just like this, and spend hours in idle daydreams until someone, usually Guillaume but also often Antoine or Konstin or both, or even Papa, came looking for her to bring her back in. She would bring some of her books out with her, or her sewing or both, and it was like a little kingdom for her and her alone, hiding under the trees.
Oh, to be back there. To be that little girl again. To not have to think about wounds and drains and dressings and infections (and when Konstin's face contorted in pain drifts before her she forces it away so as it cannot taint her thoughts, not right now). It seems so very far away from here, from all of this.
Amélie lowers herself to the ground, and Marguerite sighs, her little piece of hidden away time over.
"Any news?" she asks quietly, unwilling to sit up just yet. Another minute or two of lying down will hardly hurt anyone.
Amélie's fingers are gentle as they take her hand and squeeze it. "Your brother is quite upset. I sat with him for a little while trying to soothe him, but he is still very anxious and worried. I doubt if he will settle until—until your cousin recovers." There hanging in the air in that brief moment of hesitation is the question, the unspoken thought of if Konstin will recover.
If.
Marguerite swallows down the bile that rises in her throat, tries to focus on Amélie's thumb rubbing slow circles into the back of her hand. He will recover. He will. He has to. Any alternative outcome is simply unthinkable.
"The Capitaine, Dupuis isn't it?" Marguerite nods in affirmation and Amélie continues on, her grip slightly tighter. "He is very restless. But I think it is the fever leaving him like that, more than any pain. Carrière examined him again a few minutes ago, and he thinks that with the injury to his spine he has no sensation in his legs, or of the surgical wound." She swallows. "But his fever is very high."
Marguerite sighs, and draws in a deep breathe to try to steady the pounding of her heart. Though she cannot see the sky properly through the trees, and the sun is still casting shadows though they are duller than only a few minutes ago, there is a very slight smell of rain on the air, cool and damp and raising the earthy smell of the soil.
She cannot bring herself to care if it rains while she's still out here.
"Did—Did Carrière say what he thinks it is?"
Amélie does not answer, and Marguerite pulls her eyes away from the soft shadows to look at her face, sees the tight crease of her lips. "What did he say, Amélie?"
Amélie swallows again, and looks away from Marguerite, out under the trees. "Peritonitis. He says he thinks peritonitis."
Peritonitis. The very word is like—like a death sentence falling, and Marguerite's heart lurches, tears stinging her eyes.
"Does he think—does he think he can do anything?" Even to her own ears her voice is hoarse.
"He wants to try another surgery. To clean the cavity." She looks back down at Marguerite, a slight quirk to her lip. "You know what Carrière is like. Always experimenting."
"That's why he's good. He chances things."
Silence falls between them. A silence with no pressure to speak, no need for words to fill the gap. And Marguerite regards Amélie, regards the soft look on her face, and in spite of all of the worries, in spite of the anxiety and the fear twisting nauseous in her gut, she wonders, for one brief flash of a moment, she wonders what it might be like to take Amélie in her arms and hold her. Just hold her.
Amélie sighs, and the moment dies. "I have a telegram for you, from Paris. It's what brought me out." And she reaches into her pocket, and withdraws it.
The questions swirl in Marguerite's mind, her stomach churning. Is it Christine? Enquiring after Konstin? If it is, what could Marguerite tell her? That there is no change? His fever is still high? His condition is still grave? Or is it from Maman, asking after Antoine? Asking after Konstin too but Antoine first? And what could she tell her? That his wound is healing as well as can be expected? No sign of fever but he is very anxious and unsettled over Konstin and will worry himself worse if things do not change?
There is nothing any good that she can tell anyone anymore. And it makes her want to scream.
With trembling hands, she takes the folded paper and opens it. Though the light is dimming there is still enough to read by, and her eyes catch on Guillaume's name at the top. Guillaume? So he is home safe after all.
She reads the words, and tears prickle her eyes. TELL ANTOINE HE BROKE HIS PROMISE STOP PROMISED TO BE CAREFUL STOP AND TELL THAT COUSIN OF MINE HE NEEDS TO PULL THROUGH STOP THIS IS NO TIME FOR HIM TO BE DRAMATIC FINAL STOP
She can hear him say the words. Can hear the precise cadence of his voice, and her heart aches to feel his arms around her, for him to pull her close and tell her that they will be all right. And she knows, oh how she knows, that his abrupt words only mean that he is worried, as worried as she is. And if she could, if she could she would lay her head on his shoulder, and cease to be the nurse, cease to know so much about all of this, and just cry. Just cry.
The tears trickle down her cheeks, and Amélie's hand is gentle stroking her hair.
A/N: On a meta note, the title for this chapter came from a song by The Decemberists, 'The Harrow and the Haunted', and is completely the fault of hopsjollyhigh who regularly recommends me Decemberists songs.
As ever, let me know what you think! With the week I've had your reviews are more appreciated than ever.
Up next: Konstin continues to be caught between dreams and memories, while Marguerite is caught between avoidance and denial. Christine fixates on a scarf, and Antoine is helpless.