A/N: Chapter title comes from the poem 'War' by Vera Brittain.
His eyes flickered open, only for a moment, as she took his hand, then they slipped closed again, and his lips twitched into a faint smile as he murmured, "Mar...guerite," those pale lips barely stirring, and she shushed him gently, and leaned in and kissed his forehead, her lips lingering against his skin.
"Hush, Edouard. You need to save your strength." Save your strength. The very words are worn thin from overuse.
He sighed, and leaned into her, and did not speak again. And she tried not to hear the faint rattle in his breath, the hitch of it that remained even when his fingers grew slack in hers. She slipped her arm under his shoulders, and drew him closer to her, tears prickling her eyes.
He has not stirred since, his breaths uneven in her ear, and his temperature is still too low, his whole body too frail, the pulse in his wrist barely perceptible though the one in his neck is stronger. And she knows, deep down she knows, that it can only be a matter of time now.
The thought leaves her numb, leaves a hollow aching beneath her heart. Surely, surely she should feel something other than hollowness? Something other than empty?
A tremor rips through her, and a scream catches in her throat. It's so unfair! How can he be dying like this? Of an infection that nobody could do anything about because he was already so weak, and so ill, and it's going to take him, it's going to take him no matter what she does, no matter how she longs for him and aches for him and needs him—
Why does it have to be him? Why? Oh, God, why?
The tears drip, trickle into his hair as if they are blessing him, as if they might keep him safe from the poison inside of his own body, and she kisses his forehead, again and again and again, his skin so chilled and cold, and prays he can feel it, even in his sleep, prays that he knows he is not alone.
It is a long time later – how long, she cannot be certain though her tears have dried – and Edouard is still sleeping, his breaths still hitching, when Marguerite hears footsteps softly beside her. She swallows, and lifts her head, turns just enough to see Amélie standing there, her face pale and drawn.
"I thought you might like to know," she murmurs, "that your cousin, Konstin, his fever has broken."
Konstin. Oh, God, she had forgotten about Konstin, forgotten about him lying at death's door while she sat here beside Edouard, hiding on him and on Antoine both. And she knows she should feel relief to know that his fever is broken, but all she can feel is the same yawning emptiness inside of her.
"His blood pressure is stronger too," Amélie goes on, her voice still soft as her eyes wander to Edouard, still peacefully sleeping (and a little voice in the back of Marguerite's mind whispers that unconscious might be a better word, and a shudder runs through her), "and his pulse is too, and he has a little colour back. He's sleeping, but Lefevre looked in on him and says that things look favourable."
Things look favourable. Antoine must be relieved.
"That's good," Marguerite murmurs, and her voice is hoarse from her tears and not having spoken for so long.
Amélie nods, and sighs. "Your brother burst a couple of his stitches, but Lefevre looked him over too and says that it seems to be only the external ones. I gave him a little more morphine and he's peaceful now again." She swallows, and Marguerite barely has time to register the words, burst a couple of his stitches, when she is continuing on again, her eyes focused now on Edouard. "I'll sit with him for you, if—if you want to send a telegram to your aunt or—or to your mother. He might get upset if he—if he wakes and finds you gone."
The tears sting Marguerite's eyes again. Send a telegram to Christine? Of course she should. It would be best, but the thought of leaving Edouard, even for a moment, makes pain stab in her heart.
"I can't leave him, Amélie. I can't."
And Amélie nods again, as if she had expected that reply, her eyes meeting Marguerite's at last. And is Marguerite imagining it? Or is there a faint glimmer of a tear in her eyes? She does not have time to be certain, because next Amélie is speaking again, "In that case, tell me what to say, and I'll send it for you."
And now,now at last, relief does wash over Marguerite, and it is weakening.
It comes to him in pieces, fragments. Dense fog pressing in on all sides, thick and white and so heavy he can barely breathe, the world muffled as if it has been turned upside down, as if he is only one of a small band of survivors, the mud sucking at his boots. An impression of a figure at his side, in the distance. A flash of green eyes and a faintly furrowed brow (Dupuis?) asking him a question without the need for words.
Spurt of blood, scarlet and stark against the grey-white.
The burst of a shell, a muffled crash and splatter and tumbling, falling, darkness.
Pain, burning through his leg, his arm, his chest. Lancing sharp each time he opens his eye.
A golden eye, the same as his own, as if he is looking in a mirror but he did not blink and that eye did blink so how could he be looking in a mirror if his eye and that eye are not blinking in unison?
A soft voice, low and curling gentle. "...my dear boy..."
Brown eyes filled with tears, lips pressed gently to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, a hand grasped around his own. Sweet Persian murmured in his ear.
Antoine, Antoine, so long since he's seen Antoine, and perhaps if he reaches out he might find him, his fingers might snag on his coat, and he tries to stretch his arm, tries, but the pain sears sharp up to his shoulder, and he hears a groan, a low groan, feels the rumbling of it in his throat.
Pain. Pain is—is odd. He is certain there was no pain before...
Wounded. Must—must have been wounded.
And at the thought, it is as if all of his nerve endings are on fire, pain burning through every fibre of him, every inch, and there is a faint glimmer of light in the distance, but the dragging darkness washes it away, and there in thedarkness there is no pain.
"Mar…Mar…" His voice is faint, breaths shallow and gasped, and she shushes him, tries to shush him, but he keeps whimpering, keeps murmuring that same thing over and over again, his eye open only a crack and roving slowly over the room. "Mar…Mar..." He whimpers, a pained low whimper, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes and she wipes them away with her fingertips, as gentle as she can.
"I'm here, Edouard, I'm here," she keeps her voice soft, and her throat is too tight for her to strengthen it, to be certain that he can hear it through the haze of his delirium. She squeezes his trembling fingers, and kisses his forehead. "I'm here, I'm right here. I'm not going to go anywhere, I promise."
He groans again, more tears trickling, his lips still forming that one word, "Mar…Mar…" and she wipes away these fresh tears, her heart twisting with sheer helplessness. Why can she not do something to help him settle? (If she could she might give him more morphine, but it is not long since he had a dose, a strong dose, and more now might overwhelm him too much, might weaken his breathing, and his breathing could not stand to be weakened more.) Why can he not tell she is here? Even as she whispers to him and kisses him and squeezes his fingers? Why is his delirium so bad? Why? Why? Why?
She cannot bear it, cannot bear to sit here and press her face close to his, and not be able to do anything to help him. But she could bear it less to be away from him now, could bear it less to be tending to someone else and not here, to be condemned to wonder, and worry, and pray, and she is worrying enough already, her heart pounding with sheer terror so that it is hard for her to draw a full breath seeing him like this, but he keeps whimpering, "Mar…Mar…" over and over again so that it is imprinted in her mind, woven into her bones, and she will never be able to unhear it, never be able to shake it away.
"I'm here," she whispers, "I'm here" and she keeps whispering it until her voice is hoarse, until she thinks she might never be able to speak another word again, and with one last,drawn out pleading, "Maaaaar..." his eyes flutter closed, and a sigh slips from his lips, and he is silent but for the still-shallow gasps of his breath.
He is aware that there should be discomfort beneath his ribs. It was all in the surgeon's face as he felt his stomach, palpated it and squeezed it, the skin stretching and protesting. But the pinch in his arm took all of the discomfort away, and there is only numbness, buzzing gently at the back of his head.
His head is too heavy to lift it off the pillow, but he does not need to lift it now, does not need to move at all, in fact, only to turn his head to the left, and there he can see all that he wishes to see. Konstin, in the other bed, alive and well and easier than he has been in days. And the very thought that Konstin is well, or will be well, that he will wake and talk and live, is so wonderful, so beautiful, that butterflies flutter beneath his navel. It is not nausea, there was plenty of that before, but simply fluttering, slightly giddy, as if once he starts laughing he will never be able to stop.
He must not start laughing though. No, he must not. If he does he might wake Konstin, and Konstin needs to sleep, he knows that now, needs to sleep so that he will get well. And when he does get well they will leave this place, and hug each other, and kiss each other, and just hold on long into the night.
The thought of those nights, the promised nights to come wrapped in each other's arms, is so sweet, so beautiful, that a slow smile spreads across Antoine's lips. He can feelit, and does not try to stop it. Konstin is alive, and he is going to stay that way. What more reason does he need to smile?
Edouard's skin is mottled, faintly purple and clammy to the touch. She rubs her hand up and down his arm trying to encourage the circulation, to bring some heat into it, but what is the point of just warming his arm? His whole body is like that, cold and clammy, and if she thought it might make a difference to him she would climb into the bed beside him, and pull him into her arms, and press herself close so that her own heat would seep into him, would drive that terrible chill from his skin.
But it would be futile, futile when it is not heat he lacks but circulation, and if she pressed herself against him it would not encourage his blood flow closer to his skin, would not improve his colour, and it might hurt him, the movement, might wake him, and he should wake only if he feels ready to wake, and not because he's gotten jostled in his sleep.
The very moment she thinks of him waking, he whimpers, and a faint furrow appears between his brows. Carefully, slowly, she moves her hand that is rubbing his arm and presses her finger to his lips, and even his lips are cold, colder than they were when she last kissed them only an hour or two ago, and her heart twists but he does not whimper again, does not stir again, only sighs and the furrow smooths away.
She presses her lips gently to his brow, and lays her cheek to his forehead, and sighs, letting her finger slip from his lips down to the chain around his neck. Her Saint Anthony. She gave it to him days ago, and forgot all about it until she saw the silver of the chain glinting between the fingers of his other hand, the hand she has not been holding. And she eased from his grip, and let the little Saint in his capsule dangle before her, but she knew she could not take it back. There would be no point in taking it back, not now. Not when he needs it so badly, and she needs it not at all.
(She needs him. Not the Saint Anthony, or the Rosary beads hidden beneath her pillow back in the room she shares, but Edouard, only Edouard, and she whispers it to him softly.)
Her fingers curl around the little capsule, and she kisses Edouard's forehead, once, twice, three times, soft open-mouthed little kisses, and some part of her hopes that though he is unconsc—sleeping, though he is sleeping, that he might be able to feel her here, might be able to sense her. And she kisses his forehead again, and squeezes the capsule resting high on his chest, and lets her eyes slip closed to hide the tears prickling sore.
But the tears come, they come and they come and slip from the corners to land on his forehead, and she tries to tell herself that they are a blessing for him, tries to tell herself they will keep him safe. But if the Saint Anthony has not kept him safe, and if her—her kisses and all of her tangled mess of feelings have not kept him safe, then what hope can her tears have?
It is Anja who answers the door when the knock comes, Anja who rushes back in with a pale face and trembling hands, carrying an envelope, Anja who presses the envelope into Christine's hand, and Christine knows it is a telegram, and that very knowledge makes her shiver. A telegram. Another telegram.
And she tries not to think, as she eases the envelope open and Raoul looks across at her from his armchair with anxious eyes, that the last telegram brought news of infection and surgery, and the one before that of wounds, and the one before that of the dreadful word missing. There is a history of horrors contained in these telegrams, a growing list that makes her head swim, but she draws a deep breath to steady herself, steady the pounding of her heart, as she gently removes the folded slip of paper from inside the envelope.
For long moments she stares at the paper, unable to bring herself to unfold it. What if it should say that he—that Konstin has died? What if that is the secret it contains? That his heart stopped beating sometime in the last few hours? That he shuddered and sighed and ceased to be? The nausea rises burning in her throat and she swallows it down, biting her lip and forcing herself to count, to ten, to twenty, to thirty and forty. From the side of her eye she sees Anja slip out, come back three heartbeats later with Émile following her, his eyes wide in his pale face. The clock ticks on the mantelpiece, each tick deafening. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, as if it is counting out the seconds of a life, the seconds of a world in which she can pretend Konstin is well, will be well.
(He cannot be dead. If he were dead she would surely have felt it, would surely have sensed it somehow the moment that he slipped away. And when she has not felt a flicker of something, has not felt her heart falter in time with his, then it must be that he is still alive.)
She swallows to brace herself, and opens the paper.
And tears fill her eyes as she reads the words written there, though they make no sense as they blur on the page and she has to blink rapidly to clear her vision, and she hears a halting gasp from the direction of Raoul, hears him call her name ("Christine? Christine, what is it? What is it? Is he—Did he—") and then fingers are tugging the paper from her hand and she lets it go, still able to see the words printed before her eyes, the memory of Erik's voice soft in her ear, Our poor boy will be well now, I promise.
A murmured "Thank God", and then Raoul's arms are wrapping around her, pulling her close, and she feels tears wet in her hair, tears that are not hers, can only be his, and another set of arms wraps around her (Anja) and another (Émile), and now, now at last, the words make sense in her mind, take shape as they ought to.
FEVER BROKEN STOP INFECTION CLEARING STOP RESTING COMFORTABLY FINAL STOP
Raoul's lips aregentle pressed to her forehead, and Anja giggles into her ear, "He's going to be all right, Mamma. He's going to be all right."
She would cling to him, would wrap her arms around him and pull him close, and cling to him forever if she could. Cling to him until her arms turned to stone, until her lungs refused to draw breath, until her heart ceased to beat and the tears dried still on the surface of her eyes. Just hold him, and hold him, and hold him, if her arms could keep him safe, if her arms could make him well, if it meant he would open his eyes, and look up at her with that sweet hesitant smile, his lips twitching faintly, and press his fingertips lightly to her cheek. Hold him, and kiss him, and cradle him, and murmur to him, all sorts of promises, all sorts of dreams, of vain hopes.
And he would answer her, his voice low and words gentle. Answer her, and lean into her, and curl his hand around her hip and just hold onto her, just hold on.
And they would be two, two become one statue, holding each other for eternity. And it would be enough, would be more than enough. Just to have him, and hold him, and—and—and love him?
(Does she love him? She must. There can be no other explanation for the aching in her heart, for the tears that burn her eyes, for the coiling in her gut and the way she needs him, needs to be here, needs to hold him (hold his hand). Love him. It can only be love, and she tries to say it, tries to bring the words to her lips but they die, as if he stole her words when he stole her heart, and left it a writhing, twisting, mess inside of her that sends pain shooting through her chest and makes her hunch her back as if that will keep the pain at bay. The pain is preferable to the hollowness, but the pain crowds out all else, constricts her lungs, and it is so hard to breathe, so hard, tears springing to her eyes with the very effort.)
"Marguerite." The voice is soft from behind her, shatters the mirror of her thoughts, and she raises her head, turns around enough to see Amélie standing there, her eyes heavy and mouth twisted. "Marguerite, I'm sorry. You know I—I wouldn't ask you to leave him otherwise but—but we need you. We don't have enough hands, and a shell crashed into a dugout…"
The words fade, cease to matter. All she knows is she has to leave him. She has to get up, and let go of his hand, and walk out of this room, stay away from him for God knows how long and his heart might stop beating while she's gone! He might stop breathing and if he stops breathing then she needs to be here to rub his chest and make him start again, remind him of the fact that he has to live, he has to, and she cannot do any of that if she is away from him, and her head spins, her breath catching in her throat but she will not faint, she will not, that would be doing him an injustice if she were to faint at the thought of leaving him, and she will not do him an injustice now, she will not.
She swallows, and nods, blinking hard against the tears that threaten in her eyes. So help her, but if she has to leave him she will look composed. "All right," she whispers, her throat tight and aching. "All right."
It is the pain in his abdomen which he notices first, the burning, aching pain that makes him gasp. Then he becomes aware of the pain in his legs, left leg worse than the right, as if the muscles have been cramped up too long, are begging him to be moved, and he tries to move his leg but the pain shoots straight into his hip and he stifles a whimper. The left arm is lesser, a deeper throbbing that he can almost ignore, drowned out by the rawness of the rest and he swallows, tries to wriggle the fingers of his right hand, and there is no pain in that arm but when he tries to shift himself to alleviate the pain in his leg, there is a stabbing in his chest which makes his head swim, and he groans.
So much pain. Why—why must there be so much pain?
His eyes flicker open, and though the room is dark (or is it? Is there something wrong with his eyes? It feels as if he has a blind spot, as if half of him has been cut off) though the room is dark what light there is makes his eyes sting and water as if someone (Dupuis) has been cutting onions poorly again only this time his nose does not tingle.
He swallows hard, and blinks rapidly to clear his vision. The room still feels off kilter, still feels as if there is a part of him missing, but his sight is clear enough now that he can tell that it is sparsely furnished, that it—that it rather resembles a hospital room.
Well. He is wounded. It makes sense that it would be a hospital room.
Another groan slips from his aching, dry throat, and he swallows, tries to take some of the cracked feeling away from it. It is not good for his voice, when his throat feels cracked. It makes it difficult to sing.
He pushes the thought away. If he is wounded (and he must be, if the damned persistent throbbing in what feels like every part of him is anything to go by) then it will be a long time until he is able to sing.
There was something about Antoine. The thought rises up and snags in his mind. Something about Antoine, what seems like a long time ago. Antoine with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Antoine pressing lips to his forehead. Antoine murmuring to him in Persian in words that felt like silk wrapping him. Antoine supposed to be lying beside him. Wasn't that what someone said, sometime? So long ago? Antoine in the bed beside him?
In the bed. The choice of words—But Antoine couldn't have been wounded. He will not stand for it if Antoine is wounded!
He must be wounded, another voice whispers in the back of his mind. There was blood from his mouth. Obviously he is wounded.
Well. Obviously.
He sighs. If Antoine is supposed to be lying beside him, then he will, will just turn his head and see. And he does just that, slowly, so as not to jar any of the aching parts of him, and his eyes meet a pair of tired brown eyes, shining with a smile.
Antoine. So Antoine is here.
And it is so good to see him, Konstin's heart throbbing at the very sight of those eyes, at the sight of that soft smile, and his eyes water again though not from the light, his mind struggling for words, for something to say.
But before he can say anything, Antoine is whispering, "It's good to see you," and the words seep into Konstin's chest, make his heart feel so very full, so very tight, and all he can whisper is a simple, faint,
"I missed you."
The words are not a lie, are the truest thing he's ever spoken, but Antoine's eyes water, the tears glistening, and his voice is hoarse as he whispers back, "I missed you too."
She was bandaging the broken arm of a man (Carrière had already taken the other arm), when hands reached in from behind her, and took the bandages. "He was asking for you." The voice was Minette's, and Marguerite half-turned, enough to see her face as Minette took the roll of bandages fully from her grip, and jerked her head.
Marguerite did not need to ask who he is. There could be only one, and with a nod to Minette she was running, running out of the ward of newly-injured men and down the hallway, and around a corner and down another hallway, the pounding of her heart in her ears all she could hear, drowning out the echo of her running feet, her lungs burning as she ran, and ran, and it felt like a lifetime, felt as if it was stretching and stretching out forever though it could only have been a couple of minutes at most, until she was standing outside the room where Edouard lay with three other officers. The door was open, but there were screens up around Edouard's bed (oh, God, not the screens, please, God, not the screens) and she could not see him, could not see him as she gasped, her chest heaving, struggling to catch her breath. She could not face him dishevelled, could not face him winded, and it took her so long, so long, to gather herself, and brace herself, and smooth her uniform, every second her heart fluttering, whispering that she was wasting time, she needed to go in there now, to see him now…
…and his eyelids flickered, very slightly, as she took his hand, raised his fingertips to her lips, and she could see the faintest glimmer of green iris, only for a second, before he whimpered, his breath half-strangled, and tightened his fingers around hers. And she leaned in, leaned in as close as she could, her lips brushing the shell of his ear and whispered, her voice hoarse, "it's all right, Edouard, I'm here." And Dumas could surely hear her, but he did not raise his eyes from the set of black Rosary beads entwined with Edouard's fingers, his voice softly whispering Latin.
Salve, Regina
She kissed Edouard's forehead, and the corner of his mouth, and the slight dip beneath his eye, and lay her head down on the pillow next to his so that they were cheek-to-cheek, Edouard's skin so cold,
Mater misericordiæ
"I'm here, I'm here and—and I love you, Edouard, I love you." Her voice was so faint, barely a breath, but the words were ones that could not bear being spoken, that could not survive long in the air alone, so she murmured them into his ear and squeezed his hand as if by that measure alone she could be certain that he heard her. I hope that you can hear me. I hope that you can feel me. "And I'm sorry I never told you before, I'm sorry I—I never knew you before and I'm sorry, Edouard, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The words all caught in her throat, crowded into a tight painful ball so that she could not speak a single one of them, and she squeezed his hand again, his fingers so still, a soft whimper slipping from his throat.
Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevæ
Carefully, infinitely carefully, she eased herself onto the narrow bed beside him and wrapped her arms around him, the Saint Anthony around his neck falling against her chest, and he sighed, sighed as she kissed his forehead, and she found herself wondering, as she pressed herself to him, if he was able to feel her.
If he is able to feel her.
What does it matter who sees her holding him? The screens hide them from the world so that it is only Dumas who knows, and Dumas will not say a word, and she needs to hold Edouard, she needs to, so that he knows he is not alone. Better to be held and not alone than to be not alone and not held, and her heart is too full, aching and twisting and making it so hard to breathe so that her own breaths are short even as his are gasped, his blue-tinged lips parted and face grey.
in hac lacrimarum valle.
She focuses on his breathing, each inhale and exhale drowning out her own thoughts, and if he is still inhaling, still exhaling, then time has not yet stopped, then the world is still turning, and she listens to his breathing as if it is the only thing left in the world, lets it wash over her.
In. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out. And in.
misericordes oculos ad nos converte
His breaths are uneven, now, short ones and long ones and pauses in between, staccato notes, each one separate and distinct. And she hangs on those breaths, hardly daring to breathe herself for fear of disturbing them. "Keep breathing," she whispers, her voice thick with tears though her eyes are dry and why are her eyes dry? They should be watering, should be overflowing, but they remain stubbornly dry as she whispers again, "keep breathing, just keep breathing."
Et Jesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui,
He gasps, a short gasp, his head shifting on the pillow next to hers, and she feels the arch of his neck, the strain of it as he tries to draw air, her heart catching, faltering to hear him, to see him, and her throat tightens so much that even her pleas for him to keep breathing are choked off and silenced in the pause, the dragging pause, until he sucks in another breath.
nobis post hoc exsilium ostende.
Now the tears come, stinging her eyes, trickling down into his hair, her lips pressed to his forehead. And she cannot bear to look at his face, at this face she has kissed so many times in these last two days though it feels at once like a lifetime and a moment, stretching on forever and over in a heartbeat. And there is not enough time, not enough time to hold him, not enough time to kiss him, not enough time to whisper to him and to pray and to promise that she will remember him always, every second of her life (how could she forget him? Her heart beats for him now, each beat an echo of his name, Edouard Dupuis, Edouard Dupuis, Edouard Dupuis), and he draws another breath, his body slack against her, head lolling into her, and she waits for the exhale to come, and waits, and waits.
O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria.
He sighs, and her fingers are fumbling at his throat, seeking out the fluttering of his pulse, and it is weak, so weak, and her fingers are back at his wrist, pressing in, but there is no pulse there, his blood pressure sunk too low, and when he does not try to take another breath, the seconds stretching on and on, she rubs her knuckles into his breastbone, willing him to breathe, whispering for him to, breathe, Edouard, breathe, breathe, and he half-gasps, her knuckles aching but he does not gasp again, and a hand is catching hers, is stilling it, Dumas' hand, and he is looking at her with heavy eyes, his lips downcast.
"Marguerite," (and the thought comes to her, incongruously, that he has never called her Marguerite before, has always called her De Chagny or Mademoiselle), "he's been through too much, Marguerite. Let him go."
Let him go? No! She can't let him go, she can't, and the very suggestion is a lance of pain through her heart, sharp and piercing, her own lungs stuttering, but he can't go, he can't, not like this, not now, not when they were supposed to have so much more time, and she is distantly aware that she is whispering, whispering words to that effect even as Dumas shakes his head, and she pulls her hand out of his grasp (how long has it been since Edouard took a proper breath? how long? a minute? two minutes? time is gelatinous, she cannot tell) and she gives Edouard's chest another rub, her stomach churning to see the red bruising she has already left on his ashen skin and it must be hurting him, must be hurting him so terribly for her to rub him like this, especially now when he is already bruised, and she will not hurt him, she cannot, and she lifts her hand away, presses her fingers back into his throat, and the throbbing of his pulse is fainter than it was, almost imperceptible.
"Don't go, Edouard," she whispers, "don't go. Just hang on another moment, another moment," and his pulse keeps throbbing, faltering and stalling, and throbbing, but he does not start breathing. "Please don't go, please." And her own voice is faint, as faint as his pulse. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
And his pulse fades, fades so that she cannot feel it. But has it faded? Or is it just that her fingers are too numb to feel it? (Please let her fingers be too numb to feel it, please.) But she searches, and searches, and tries with different fingers, but she cannot find it, cannot, and his body is so limp, and Dumas is looking at her with those sad eyes, his own fingers fumbling against hers at Edouard's throat but he shakes his head, shakes his head, and a sob tears itself from deep inside of her because his fingers wouldn't be numb, couldn't be numb, and if he can't feel it—if he can't feel it—
"No," she whispers. "No no no no no." And she is kissing Edouard, kissing his temples and his forehead and stroking back his hair, but he does not stir, does not breathe, and the cracks that have been threatening in her heart gape, a chasm opening inside of her, and she can't breathe, can't think, can't feel.
A/N: I'm sorry.
A sidenote though: Edouard's words from the last chapter ("Three days of lying on this hillside have left me very stiff") were inspired by Lieutenant Roland Leighton's last words of "Lying on this hillside for six days makes me very stiff", from 23 December 1915. Leighton had been shot through the stomach and had his spinal cord damaged. He would have been paralysed below the waist if, by some miracle, he had lived. He was also the fiancé of Vera Brittain, who wrote a number of heartbreaking poems after his death.
(And yes, Edouard was a little bit inspired by him all along, though I could not say that before now)
Also, the Latin in the last section is composed of extracts from the prayer Salve Regina
Up Next: The aftermath - Marguerite a mess, Konstin in pain, Antoine reassuring himself, and Christine relieved.