A/N: Chapter title from the song 'The Harrow and the Haunted' by the Decemberists. I rushed to get this chapter done so I could post it today on the anniversary of Armistice Day, (it seemed appropriate with this being a WWI fic and all) and I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.

Warning for slightly graphic description of wounds in the first section.

They come to him through the mist, vague intangibilities just beyond the reach of his fingers. The horizon-blue of their uniforms blends away, fades, blood staining the fabric almost black. Mazet's pale hand is pressed to his throat, blood trickling scarlet over the fingers. More blood trickles from Robert's temple, the hole neat and small and his eyes hollow, and Henri sways, his dark eyes blown wide, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, making no effort to hide the hole in his stomach gaping open, as if his body is a bowl holding this soup of entrails.

And Dupuis, standing in front of them staring blankly. Dupuis, balanced on his left leg (where is his right? Blood drips from the stump). Dupuis, a faint smile twitching his lips as he nods, nods, and the bile rises in Konstin's throat, sweat beading cold on his skin and he tries to close his eyes, tries to block these spectres, but they follow him, follow him, follow him—

Follow him and his eyes snap open, the room dark, his heart pounding, pounding so hard he thinks it might come through his chest. He gasps, holds his breath as if it might settle the racing of his heart, and distantly he can hear soft breathing from over to his right, slow easy breathing. Who—? Antoine! Antoine is there, and he listens to those breaths, each gentle inhale and exhale, hangs on them until he feels the pounding of his heart settle, slow, and Antoine sighs, as if he might know the terrible images lurking behind Konstin's eyes. But he cannot know, he cannot, and the darkness washes back over Konstin, and Lieutenant Henri smirks.

The memories drift before her, impressions of moments. Arms around her, steadying her, guiding her down the hall. Minette's voice a murmur, "...perhaps some laudanum...", some rumble of Dumas' voice, "...attend to...in your hands..."

Laying her down, hands undressing her, as gentle as if she were a child. Maman? No. Maman is—is not here. Not Maman. Cold rim of a glass pressed to her lips, bitter taste. Sleep tugging at her eyelids, dreamless sleep.

Waking heavy, thoughts thick as soup, throat aching, eyes dusty as sand. Body numb. Heart numb. Hollow as if she has been tunnelled out, as if there is a cave within her.

Falling into sleep again.

The older memories linger, unshakeable. Ashen pale skin, lips tinged blue. Remembered movements in her hands, performed a hundred, a thousand times. Rubbing a breastbone, willing to draw breath. Fingertips seeking, searching, pressing into a soft throat. Easing a pillow from beneath a heavy head, laying the head down. Taking limp hands, cold hands, and folding them over the breastbone she rubbed. (Kissing the hands. She never kissed someone's hands before, only his. But she kissed the hands and kissed the forehead and kissed the closed eyes and kissed the lips. The chill of it lingers in her own lips, pressed deep into the nerves, always there beneath the surface.)

And there were tears. Tears that streamed down her cheeks, left them rough and sore. Tears that splashed on his face, on his hands, a blessing, a sacrament, and she did not wipe them away, did not kiss them away. If her tears would bring him back she would cry him rivers, oceans, let a world of tears flow from her aching eyes, and damn the sobs catching in her throat, strangling her breath.

The tears do not come, now. But a ball in her throat aches tight at the memory of them, at the knowledge of how they did come. And in the midst of the memories, of the hollowness, of the numbness spreading onwards and onwards into every part of her, fingers and toes, stiffening them.

In the midst of it all there is one clear thought.

Edouard is dead.

Is it normal for Konstin to sleep so much? It must be. He is after surviving a terrible illness, after all. It is understandable that he needs to sleep to re-build his strength, but Antoine cannot help a flicker of worry each time he looks over to the neighbouring bed. What he would not give for Konstin to open his eyes, and look at him, and smile.

The words from before come back to him. I missed you. And tears stung his eyes as he whispered, I missed you too, though missed barely begins to describe the way that he felt, the way he longed for Konstin to look at him and recognise him, the way he longed for Konstin's touch (still longs, for touch and for the press of lips and to take him in his arms), the way he longed for Konstin to say something other than indecipherable murmurings. He thought he might die, relief making his heart falter, hearing that voice again, knowing he is going to be well.

Missed him? It's more like he's burned a hundred times waiting for him to wake.

But though he has woken he still sleeps, still whimpers, lines creasing his face. The whimpers worm their way into Antoine's mind. Is it nightmares, unspeakable horrors, that he sees each time he closes his eyes? Or is it the pain following him, tormenting him even in his sleep? Nightmares or pain? Pain or nightmares? Or both?

And though Antoine's own thoughts are still sluggish, still come slow, it dawns on him now, at last, what it is about morphine and Konstin that he has spent so long groping for, and he sees it as if it is now, as if it were not fifteen years ago, the haziness in Konstin's eyes, smoke drifting before him from a long-stemmed pipe. So long ago, the old addiction, and maybe it would not make a difference now, but he knows, knows because Konstin has confessed it to him, that he sometimes still takes laudanum when he cannot sleep, when his mind is too restless. And Antoine has heard it, whispers of it, about how laudanum and opium can lessen the effects of morphine.

Oh, God. Has Konstin been in pain all of this time? Has he been suffering and he, Antoine, has been oblivious to it? Has pinned it down to the fever and written it off as nothing more?

Oh God. Oh, God.

Bile rises burning in his throat and he swallows it down. How could he have been so—so dense? It is his job to know these things! He is supposed to protect him! And if Konstin has been suffering because he has been remiss in that duty of protecting him, of caring for him—

He clenches his fingers tight in the sheets, and wills himself not to be ill. Now is not the time for him to be ill. He cannot afford the luxury, not until he fixes this and makes certain that Konstin gets more morphine and is not in pain.

Footsteps disrupt his train of thought, and he looks up to see a nurse walking in, not one he has seen before. The one who was here that night, before Konstin's fever broke, was pale, and had strands of auburn hair slipping out from beneath her hat. This nurse has a darker complexion, her skin a light brown like Maman's, but there the resemblance ends. She does not smile at him, her features tight as she consults the chart at the foot of Konstin's bed.

Will he say something to her? Something about the morphine? He should, for Konstin's sake.

"Could you," his voice is hoarse, and the nurse looks at him questioningly as he clears his throat, "could you give him some more morphine? A stronger dose? I think—I think he's still in pain." It is on the tip of his tongue to say something about the opium use, and the laudanum, but such rumours getting out—no it would not do.

The nurse frowns, purses her lips and looks back at the chart, and then back at Konstin before answering. "I will ask one of the surgeons to look at him, and see what he thinks."

"Thank you." His eyes slip closed, and then there are fingers pressing into his wrist, and he opens his eyes to see the nurse looking at him, frowning.

"I will tell your sister you were asking for her." Marguerite? But—he never said anything about Marguerite. Though now that he thinks about her, it is a long time since he has seen her, since before Konstin's fever broke. Is she well? Does she know that Konstin is going to live? Before he can ask the nurse, something has flickered in her eyes and she is saying, "She is resting now. She—she has worn herself out with worry. But I think it would be good for her to come see you, yes?"

He is uncertain what to say. He would like to see Marguerite, yes, but it is not like her to wear herself out. She is usually so careful, so good about working hard but still looking after herself. Of course it—it is not exactly something that could be expected to happen, for her brother and cousin both to end up wounded at the same time in the same hospital she is in, but surely she has not exhausted herself on their account

He hopes she has not.

But the nurse is still looking at him, as if she expects an answer, and he nods. "Yes. I—I would like to see her."

The nurse nods. "Good. I will tell her to stop in when—when she has time. She needs you, more than ever." There is something this nurse is not telling him, something about Marguerite, and his heart twists. Oh, God don't let her be in trouble of any sort.

She turns to go, and he grabs her hand, and squeezes it. "What is your name, mademoiselle?" It seems important that he know, important that he remember, and she squeezes his hand back.

"Minette."

"Thank you, Minette." And then her fingers are slipping from his grip, and she is gone, and he sinks back into the bed, worry twisting anew in his heart for Konstin and Marguerite both.

Raoul's arms are safe around her, and she leans into his chest. He ordered her to go to bed, one of the few times he's ever ordered her to do anything in their time together, insisting that she need to rest and promising to join her. And perhaps he is right that she needs to rest, but how can she rest when her boy is still so far away from her?

The telegram said that he is recovering, and she is relieved to know that, oh, how she is relieved, but he must be still so weak, so very ill, even though his fever has broken. Perhaps he is in pain, even with all of the morphine they've surely given him. Perhaps he is not certain where he is, perhaps he is still fighting nightmares and suffering even though the infection is clearing up.

The thought of him suffering in any way makes her feel ill.

But Erik will be with him, watching over him. He came to her that night (and dream or not she knows it was real, needs it to be real, for him to have been here) and told her that Konstin would be well, and though she is in Raoul's arms, how she aches to pull Erik close and hold him, just hold him, and thank him for watching over their son.

And if Erik is with him now, still, then surely his suffering cannot be so great.

His leg. There was pain in his leg, pain so bad he could not move it never mind try to stand. Was the bone shattered? He cannot remember, but his leg was wounded and when legs are wounded as badly, as painfully, as his was they, the surgeons, take them off.

His heart pounds at the very thought, a chill shuddering through him. Please God don't let them have taken his leg. They can't have taken his leg. They can't.

He tries to move it, tries to wiggle his toes because if he has toes then he must have a leg, and the pain that shoots up into his hip is sharp, leaves the outside of his leg tingling.

Pain is good. Pain is necessary.

(The pain keeps throbbing dully and the thought it is good is not at all a comfort.)

How she manages to keep kneeling, she cannot tell. She is so heavy, every inch of her so heavy that she should not be able to kneel, should not be able to do anything other than lie in bed. But she managed to sit up, managed to walk to here, and now she is managing to kneel. It should be impossible, should be beyond all reason that she is able to stand, to walk, to kneel. How does she have the strength to move at a time like this?

The Rosary beads are warm between her fingers, warm only because of how long she has been holding them. And part of her knows, part of her knows as she holds them, as she smooths her fingers over the beads, that when her mother gave her these beads it was never with the thought that she might need them over—over something like what's happened with Edouard (over falling in love with a man who's died).

Her Saint Anthony has never weighed like such a noose. Dumas pressed it into her hand, when he saw her come through the door into the chapel, and his eyes were kind. "I have a feeling it might be yours," he murmured, and her throat was too tight for her to speak so she only nodded. "If you—if you wish to talk about anything, anything at all, just let me know." And he curled her fingers around the Saint Anthony, and slipped away, back to the wards, back to someone else lying on the verge of dying, and she swayed with the thought and sank onto the first bench she came to, her fingers fumbling as she fastened the Saint Anthony back around her neck, all the time her mind whispering, Edouard wore this as he died, Edouard wore this and the tears sprang to her eyes but they did not come, not truly, only faded away so that she thought her heart would burst with pain.

Distantly she is aware that she is cold, aware of a draft creeping through the walls, seeping into her bones. She should be shivering, should be trembling, but the cold is so far away, does not feel as if it is a part of her at all, and all she can be certain of is the beads, still wrapped between her fingers. She grips them a little tighter, and draws a breath, and sighs, and searches through her mind for any wisp of a prayer.

(She would pray the Salve Regina, but the words of it make her stomach churn.)

A/N: As ever, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and please do tell me what you think of it!

Up next: Christine receives a guest and pays a visit, Marguerite also receives a visitor, Konstin and Antoine are troubled.