The darkness was all-encompassing. Until it was not.
There came a single light, dim only for a few moments before it swiftly grew in intensity. Oddly, he felt no urge to shield his eyes from it. This was not the same, shameful light he had grown to loathe; this, was mesmerizing.
With only darkness between them, the light began to take the form of a figure, one dressed in flowing satin. This figure kept his eyes with no intention of letting go. She glided towards him, or perhaps she was moving farther away, for each step he took towards her, she came no closer.
He was close enough now, however, to see her face. It was empty, blank and forgotten. Except, there was a smile, small but familiar and warm like the crescent of a moon. He recognized this light, even without a face to accompany it.
She continued to walk backwards, always keeping that smile trained on him. She was leading him like a lost sheep was led back to the flock. He allowed himself to be led.
"Have you ever been in love, Christine?"
Christine woke from staring at nothing to find Pierre staring at her. He'd been fast asleep moments ago, or at least she thought he had been; but now she questioned just how long she'd been sitting at his bedside, gazing out at nothing in particular.
She was waiting on Meg, for her to finish her kitchen duties so the two could walk home in slow conversation. As the months stretched on, as the sky grew grey and the cold air suffocating, the girls found they had little energy after the long days in the Grand Palais. Christine always found just that little bit of energy with Pierre however.
"Christine?"
She realised she'd done it again. "Sorry," she said with an apologetic breath. Then she thought about his question, such an odd question, and yet at the same time not at all. "I—well, I suppose I have." As if to quell a doubt, she looked down at the ring on her finger and tried a smile. When she looked back at Pierre, he was wearing a genuine one.
This raised her eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"
"I think I have been, too—in love, I mean."
She couldn't help the amused smile as he drifted happily into his thoughts for a moment; however, it seemed the three men on the bed neighbouring Pierre's also couldn't help their amusement.
They were laughing as they sat dishing out playing cards, a pile of loose cigarettes and hard candy between them. Christine never did figure out where they got the cards or the cigarettes—she knew Meg had supplied the sweets, despite the trouble she received from Madame Dupont. They had bandages around their heads and two had arms in a sling. They were among the healthier men on her ward, and to Christine's ever growing guilt, the moment they were well again, they would be among the men sent right back out into the fight once more.
Pierre's face grew pink as the men continued to snicker. He sat up, not without a struggle, to send a glare at his neighbours. "And what's so funny?" When he spoke, his voice was weak, even in his attempt to strengthen it.
The middle man, the only one without a sling, raised his arms casually before throwing down another few cigarettes. "The boys mean no insult, Pierre. It's only…well, surprising."
Now Christine was turned away from Pierre's ever-reddening face to eye the men. One of the slinged men gave another snort. "Just never thought you were the type, Pierre. First you have the Mademoiselle," he said nodding at Christine; "wrapped around your little finger, and now you say you have another out there waiting on you. Popular with the ladies, no?"
Christine herself let an amused breath escape her nose, but looking back at Pierre's poor face she could tell he was not at all in the mood. At that, her amusement turned to guilt instantly, and that's when she stood.
"Gentlemen, might I suggest a walk?" It was already late, some might say too late for a walk, but she wasn't the most skilled at thinking on her feet. "It's always a good idea after you've eaten."
They looked at her blankly, before the last man to speak gave his own chuckle. "You want us to go on a walk?"
She folded her hands politely at her waist. "Yes, I do."
The middle man with his free arms gave a short, exaggerated stretch. "It's just we're quite tired—and we'd hate to leave our game unfinished."
"Oh, I'm sure you boys will manage fine." Then her lips twitched into a smirk. "And if you hurry, you'll have time enough to finish your game…that is before Madame Dupont does."
Perhaps that came off too close to a threat, unintentionally of course, but the men sat in entertained silence. They seemed to know it held no malice; Christine wasn't the type to rat out harmless fun.
Despite the hard, impenetrable surface many men on her ward attempted to convince themselves of, it took no time at all for Christine to discover how easily kind many of them were. That's why, in their number of standoffs, they were more often than not the first to yield.
With only a bit of grumbling, the three made their way to the large door leading out of the ward. They wouldn't be taking their walk outside, Christine noted the whistle of the frigid early winter's wind; but the long corridors of the Grand Palais were more than enough room to roam. It would give Pierre a moment's peace from their teasing. Christine nodded in curt satisfaction, thought of Madame Giry for just a moment, then turned back to Pierre.
His face was turned away, but she could still see the tinge of red to his cheeks as she sat back down. She wasn't proud, but there was a sense of relief seeing the colour back in his face, after being missing for some time. Pierre struggled tremendously in his time at the Grand Palais, and continued to struggle—Christine was reminded of this as Pierre suddenly broke into a distressing coughing fit.
A chill, one Christine was becoming quite accustomed to, struck her spine. It was the fog, she knew immediately. At first, the fog trickled in slowly. It snuck in through any crevice it could, under doors and between cracks. It hung around her ankles as she read with Pierre or walked home with Meg. Hanging over its beauty like a heavy blanket, the fog drained the Grand Palais over the months of her residency. It stole the glow from the beautiful glass, stripping life from the walls ever so discreetly. Nurses and doctors, generals and soldiers, they all trudged through it as if there was nothing there at all, but Christine knew. She ignored it like the rest of them, however. Dwelling in it would cause more harm than good.
Still fighting off the lingering batch of coughs, Pierre refused to meet her eyes. She moved to hand him the glass of water off the small nightstand, but he held up a hand in between shaky breaths. Still clutching the glass, she sat back in her chair, feeling lost on what words could draw him out from that defeated look he was hiding in.
"I'm sorry about them," she finally settled on. "I'm sure they meant nothing by it, but that's no excuse—"
"She's not waiting on me." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Now he finally looked at Christine, and in that moment he was so vulnerable it stole any semblance of comfort Christine might have offered in return. Her mouth parted in confusion when she thought over his words, and he seemed to notice.
"They said she was waiting on me. She might…I'm sure she is but—I didn't…" Now more than ever, as he tripped and stumbled through his words, he resembled a child to Christine. He wasn't, he was a young man; but so very young.
After he'd been quiet for too long a moment, again Christine held out the glass, and this time he humoured her by taking it.
"What was her name?" She asked before he could take a sip.
Immediately there was a shift in his demeanour, like the mere mention of her could cure the very sickness he suffered now. He drank from the glass, and around its rim, there was a small smile creeping its way back onto his face. Christine was relieved.
"Josephine."
Christine smiled. "A beautiful name."
The smile on his own face grew as he nodded. "It suits her." The red of his cheeks was no longer from the men's teasing. "We grew up together, in a small village outside the city. She has this hair—beautiful hair. It's so curly, sticks and grass and all sorts of mess would get stuck in it. I used to spend hours getting her to sit still, just picking all of it out." Then he quieted, pausing to take a raspy breath. The fingers on his right hand softly rubbed together, like he was trying to remember the feeling. "I never told her. I always meant to, but it hadn't occurred to me I would never get the chance."
Having been enjoying his sweet story, Christine's lips dipped into a frown. "Of course you will. Won't she be there when you return home?"
He let out a short, defeated breath. "I don't believe I can ever face her again, let alone share these feelings with her. She deserves…" And as he trailed off, it seemed he needed to force the next words out. "A whole man."
Christine did not need to look down at his bed, to the empty space where his leg should be resting, to understand him. Her frown only deepened. "You are more whole than most, Pierre." Then as he opened his mouth, before he could speak she added, with a smile; "which includes myself."
The crooked smile, weak but there nonetheless, found its way back onto his face for a moment. Christine was glad to see it, even if it was only brief. "You know, I did almost tell her, once. It was the last time I saw her. We were watching the line of soldiers go by; I was getting ready to join them. It was the right moment—it would have been, but she was looking at me in this way only she could and I…couldn't. So I said goodbye and ran, like a coward."
Christine, her breath caught in her chest, didn't just recognise the ashamed look on Pierre's face; she connected to it. She could practically hear the distant whistle of a train right beside her, like the one that had startled her months ago.
She'd been standing on the platform alone, feeling ridiculous for wearing a scarf in the late summer.
Losing sight of Meg was something she should have predicted, and this alone was a problem she dreaded, but it wasn't Meg she searched for in the sea of faces. Trapped by the suffocating crowd, flags waved and joyous band music blared from all around her. This however was juxtaposed with the stoic faces of women no doubt watching their loved ones depart. In her staring, a train whistle sounded, and at that same moment, two familiar hands grabbed her from behind.
She yelped, then spun in place to be met with the face she'd been desperately searching for.
"Raoul!"
He was clad in the army's uniform, a blue coat and brown duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His smile was wide but it only grew when he took up the ends of her red scarf in his hand.
"A bit warm, no?"
Christine grabbed it back in mock annoyance. "Yes, I do realise that."
They stood and stared at one another for a long moment, before Christine grew too uncomfortable in the silence. "I'm happy to see you Raoul, I am but…if I'm not mistaken, aren't you supposed to be on that train?"
He laughed then, and it hurt to hear it, knowing she wouldn't for quite some time.
"Yes, but I wouldn't dare step foot on it. Not until I saw you."
Perhaps it was the crowd and the noise and all of it at once, but the tears began to flow. She fought against them for a moment, but quickly found the effort to be futile. His arms were around her at once, and they stayed together in an embrace that Christine refused to believe would end. When he did pull back, he had this expression on his face, like the one he'd worn the night of the proposal.
"I love you, Christine."
This was an 'I love you' which called for a response, one to be repeated. It occurred to Christine she hadn't yet said it, even during his proposal it'd been lost in the moment. As children, as friends, she'd shared in the phrase as they played, but this was so much more than that. Her mouth ran dry.
So instead she kissed him; and when it was done, she wondered what gave her the right to be such a coward.
They said their final goodbyes, and when he departed, disappearing into the sea of bodies, Christine should have felt utterly alone. She did not. At first, she looked around, hoping to find the lost head of golden hair, but Meg was nowhere to be found. And yet this sudden, powerful feeling was all around her, not from the crowd, not from the joyous music or faces of stoic women.
Then suddenly, as if she had known it all along, she understood in her heart who was with her, watching over her.
"Are you alright?"
Christine jolted back to reality to find Pierre looking at her once again, this time with the same concerned tilt of the eyebrows Meg had been wearing like a uniform as of late.
"Yes," she said instinctively. Even now, with only Pierre as company, surrounded by the many other patients fast asleep or lost within their heads, still Christine felt the presence beside her. She supposed it never truly left her, not since that night, hidden away in an alley.
It wasn't long before Meg was finished in the kitchen, and as Christine left Pierre's bedside, she did so with the same guilt she always did. The walk home, as had become customary, was silent. Meg was exhausted, with sleep-deprived eyes and hair hanging from her headscarf, Christine looking no better.
As they walked through the fog of that cold, deserted street, she wondered if her angel was walking it too, if he were there walking beside her.
Over the next weeks, as the season changed; as the Grand Palais continued to change; as she herself changed, the presence of her angel was never absent. Like a landmark, she could use it to keep herself from drifting too far off course. This was a childish fantasy, she knew, and she found doubt was always there to make her feel foolish. With the doubt and all the change, with Pierre's health ever worsening, the current which pulled her farther into the depths was becoming more and more difficult to fight against.
Of course, it wasn't all so terrible. Christine had to admit, she enjoyed her time as a nurse. Many little things, from the kind patients to working with Meg, and even to the faint glow that the Grand Palais still managed to hold onto—it all contributed to her happiness there. What stood out most, besides the fulfilment she found in restoring poor, hurt men to their former health, was with so much to do, always having something to occupy herself with, she never found time to disappear too deeply into the fog of her mind.
Tonight it seeped in through her lightless bedroom window, as she lay listening to the eerily quiet street paired with Meg's quiet snores. It engulfed the floor, sending a chill to roam the girls' shared room. The empty cold settled within Christine's chest, urging her to pull her duvet higher, resting it snugly under her chin. Yet still, the cold persisted.
She sat up then, bristling at the chill that struck her unprotected shoulders. Out from under the heavy duvet, she shifted so her toes disappeared into the fog below. On the side table between her and Meg's beds, she took a match from the little box waiting there. Two strikes it took for the match to light, the tiny source of warmth no help in fending off the winter cold she felt in her bones. With it, she lit the candle on the table, then blowing out the match she picked up the letter beside it.
The edges were torn and the seal broken messily in impatient joy. Christine could still hear the excitement in Meg's voice when she announced the letter, having checked their little copper mailbox expecting nothing but cobwebs. Up the stairs the girls rushed into their apartment and right to their bedroom, searching for the mail opener that seemed to have run away when they needed it most. In the end, they tore the letter open without care. Sat on Meg's bed they huddled over that letter, the first they'd gotten from Madame since her departure.
'To my dear girls,
It is my hope this letter reaches you quickly. In all my work I have not had a moment's peace to write, but I'm sure you know I have not forgotten you. In my absence I expect you have kept well—of course, I can imagine the headaches you have now, Christine, dealing with my troublesome Marguerite.'
"She couldn't resist a jab at my expense, could she?" Nothing but a smile, so concerned and yet so happy, was on Meg's face.
'I am afraid, however, I come to you with no good news. Things are far from pleasant on the front. In all this, I find there will be little time to spare in order to keep you frequently updated. This is not to say you will not hear from me again after this letter, but know these messages may be more few and far between than any of us would hope. For now, I wish you to know that I am well, and I find joy in knowing I will hear from you soon.
Sincerely,
Maman.'
The last word left the room in unsure silence, so different from the former giddy air between the girls. Even after writing their own letter, sharing all that had happened at the Grand Palais, about how much they missed her and were counting the days til her return, the lingering uneasiness persisted. Madame's writing seemed so hurried, scribbled and far less structured than the woman they knew.
It reminded Christine of her most recent letter from Raoul, the last she'd gotten for months. He lacked his natural light, the warmth that once brought her so much comfort. Both with Raoul and Madame, Christine found she could only watch helplessly as this war stripped them of themselves—read their words knowing there wasn't a thing she could do for them but wait.
As she sat in the weak glow of candlelight, now alone as Meg slept restlessly, Christine felt utterly useless. A heavy tear thudded against the thin parchment in her hand. Despite the doubt, her angel was there like a shoulder for her head to rest upon. She sat quietly in the fog, alone with her head upon her angel's shoulder.
When she finally lifted her head from that shoulder, it was to look out the window with unslept eyes. Early light stung, but it was encouraging too. It meant she would finally have something to occupy herself with. In routine she stood, leaving the letter neatly where she'd taken it and beginning her morning, disposing of her melancholy thoughts. She dressed with ease, wrapping her hair in the nurse head scarf with only slight hassle.
She waited until it was a reasonable hour before she attempted to wake the sleeping beast she shared a room with. "Meg," she called, no answer. "Meg," She tried again; "it's time to wake up."
A grunt accompanied her roll as Meg turned over, pulling the bedsheets over her head. "Another minute, Christine. It's still early," she said, muffled.
"I will not let you make us late again, Marguerite," she said, moving to pull on the blankets.
Meg held tight to her defence of sheets. "You sound just like Maman," the lump in the blankets retorted.
"Well one of us ought to."
With a firm tug, the blanket flew off, followed by a pillow directly to Christine's face. She let out an embarrassing yelp of air as Meg laughed at her expense. The golden-haired devil kneeled on the bed with the pillow in hand. When Christine refused to meet her level of excitement and stood tired with a hand on her hip, Meg's smile deflated.
"Oh, you're no fun."
"So you've told me," Christine drawled. "Now enough nonsense, you know we won't hear the end of it from Dupont if we're late. Again."
"I'm still waiting to hear the end of your nonsense," said Meg eagerly, waiting for Christine to react, to give in to the banter; but Christine just couldn't today. Realising she could not budge Christine's sour mood, Meg gave up on playing the one-sided game and moved off the bed in a huff.
As Christine waited for Meg to dress, she stood by the vanity's mirror. A foreign face greeted her, detached and sleep-deprived. She inspected her person for anything out of place, Madame Dupont a known stickler for proper dress. A rebellious curl popped out by her ear, but it was soon put in its place. It was as she tucked it back into the prison of fabric when she caught Meg's inspecting gaze in the mirror's corner.
"Yes?"
"Why are you wearing it like that?"
First patting her nurse's cap self-consciously, confused as to how she was wearing it strangely, Christine noticed Meg's eyes were not directed to her headscarf. They were set on Christine's neck, where a thin chain hung. On this chain was Raoul's ring. The fog crept up her spine. Quickly Christine tucked the necklace into her uniform's smock.
"Never mind," she snapped, far colder than she'd intended. Colder she felt when Meg's face dropped from her rudeness. "I—Meg I didn't…it's only just—" she struggled over her feelings as they came out in broken, embarrassed words. "I'm sorry," she finally settled on. "Each time I see it, I'm reminded of him and that he's gone. This way…I don't have to be reminded so often."
Meg nodded in understanding. The subject was dropped.
She joked with Meg on the cold walk to work, to make up for her unintended meanness. "If I weren't so accustomed to your stomach, I might think that was a monster's growl."
When Christine turned her head to give Meg a cheeky smile, Meg was already bent over, and suddenly a puff of snow was tossed at Christine's face. Much needed laughter erupted between the two.
"If I weren't starving, perhaps there wouldn't be growling to begin with," said Meg back to Christine's welcomed banter, relieved to see her friend partly returned to her.
"Breakfast at the Grand Palais isn't so terrible Meg," Christine said, brushing snow from her uniform before it melted. "You talk as if they feed us filth."
"But they do! Have we been tasting the same meals?"
Indeed the breakfast served was awful, but the grey mush was also easy to make in large quantities. With the ever-rising shortage of food in the city, and the girls' shaky savings, Christine reminded Meg they were fortunate to have the steady assurance of meals from their work. Along with the soldiers who were well enough to get to the mess hall, many nurses ate their breakfast with the patients.
After serving the last man his breakfast, Christine moved to the designated spot for the working women, finding both Meg and Maria playing with their food, while Annie and another nurse ate silently. "Oh, stop that you two," commanded Christine as she sat. "You ought to show more gratitude for this privilege." Christine then ate a spoonful of her privilege. "Well, you should at least pretend to be grateful—I'd hate to see how Madame Dupont would react to your gagging." To that the girls agreed, and did their best to fake happiness with each spoonful they took. Annie on the contrary seemed to need no acting as she smiled into every bite, and when she finished she sweetly offered to get the other ladies seconds from Monsieur Boche.
"I would rather talk to the man himself than eat another spoonful," retorted Meg after she reluctantly took her last bite. Annie's light expression dropped a touch and Christine elbowed her rude friend before repeating her words more politely.
"He…well, he really isn't so bad," said Annie, to which Marie laughed.
"Annie Hubert, you would say that about any person here. I'm partial to think you see good where there isn't any." The words, though a jab at the girl's gullible sweetness, were taken as complement by Annie and the shy smile found itself back to her face.
The smile was replaced by an intense blush when Marie added: "You seem to be quite friendly with the man, if he's offering you seconds."
When they stood, collecting cutlery and bowls and beginning to clear away the finished patients' things, Christine wondered about Pierre and if he'd eaten—she was sure he hadn't, his appetite had been irregular as of late. She would be sure to go and say good morning as soon as she finished—
A bell chimed at the entrance of the mess hall. The nurses paused instantly, halting in their routine. Then, in uneasy synchronization, they dropped what they were doing to answer the familiar, ominous bell.
In her first months there, the bell rang ever so often. When it did, Christine would watch many senior nurses leave their stations or the patients they were tending to. When they returned, it was with new men, in all states of injury.
Now, the bell rang weekly, sometimes daily.
Over the past weeks, as the air became frozen and snow fell harshly, Meg's wish for more important work came true. Among many of their newest responsibilities included greeting injured soldiers as they arrived. As the nurses waited on the front steps of the Grand Palais, they watched as the many military trucks drew closer.
"It does seem to be more than usual, doesn't it?" Meg said. She looked back and immediately made a face at Christine, who was putting into practice her best impression of Madame Giry's stern glare. It was hardly as intimidating, but Meg got the message. "Well—perhaps it's only supplies, like the last time." The false chipperness in her voice could be seen through by a blind man.
"It's alright, Annie," said Christine, comforting the fidgeting girl with a hand on her shoulder. Annie, although quite the talented nurse, was always so nervous waiting on these steps. Christine found she was too, but showing her nerves wouldn't help in relieving the others.
Marie stood beside Meg with her arms tightly crossed and tapped her foot in a steady, uneasy rhythm. "I do wish they would move a bit faster."
Annie's shoulder grew tense under Christine's hand. Christine leaned down to offer another word of comfort to her friend, but the trucks finally stopped down below the hospital steps, and there was no more time for idling.
There really were more than usual, and the twelve nurses who stood on the steps now seemed like far too little. Christine followed along as the many women descended the steps in practised form, all parting like forks in a river to see to the trucks. Christine and Meg stayed together in one group, but Annie and Marie were instructed elsewhere, Christine only hoping Marie didn't fry poor Annie's nerves any further.
At Meg's side, Christine and their group of nurses moved to a truck on the far right. They stood at its base as the driver, a man in a brown cap with a cigarette in his mouth, stepped out from the vehicle.
When he reached where the women stood, Meg asked quite abruptly: "Why such a large drop-off, Monsieur?" To which the man's head perked up as if he'd not known she could speak.
He raised an eyebrow. "Men coming from all over," he said, then took the cigarette that hung from his lip and stomped it out in the dirt. "But—uh…an accidents' what I heard. A big one." Then he opened the truck's back doors.
Christine braced herself as she did many a morning. With the doors open, a dim ambulance of injured men stared back at the nurses awaiting them. Soldiers sat huddled against the walls of the truck, timidly blinking and squinting at the sudden light; other men lay still on medical cots stacked like bunk beds farther into the ambulance. The men on the ground had slings and dirty bandages dawning their limbs and faces, all red and torn. These men were the first out of the truck—the ones who could still manage to walk, or in many cases hobble. Also in the truck were army men, some doctors, some other soldiers, there to assist the nurses in helping the injured men into their temporary homes.
It was after Christine guided a limping soldier in the direction of Madame Dupont, that a soldier within the truck called to her. "Mademoiselle, could you possibly assist—" but before he had finished his inquiry, Christine was in the truck beside him.
She then listened as he instructed her on how to properly carry one end of a stretcher. She hardly had time to look over the soldier lying nearly lifeless on said stretcher, Christine so focused on not tripping as she helped the soldier carry the man down. When they reached the ground, another man came to take up the end that Christine held, a sigh of relief escaping her when the weight left her arms. Despite the thin look of the unconscious patient, Christine found if she'd tried to hold onto the stretcher a minute longer, she'd have given the man even more injuries to worry about.
This was rinse and repeated with the next few trucks. There were rules for dealing with the injured soldiers. Never react too outwardly to the injuries, no matter how gruesome; be gentle and quiet, so many of the men sensitive to any sudden movement. Most important, however, perhaps more to do with the nurse than the patient, was no matter how tired you were, however frightened or disturbed, it was your duty to push forward. And so that was what Christine did.
After a while, the final truck was unloaded, and the relief felt among the many nurses was palpable. She was escorting two soldiers holding a stretcher up the stairs, however for a reason she could not explain, she glanced behind her. She saw it then, something in the distance. After another moment of staring, the something became a lone truck, getting closer and closer. First Christine made eye contact with Meg, who shrugged. Then she looked to an older nurse who was standing at the base of the many steps, and she ushered Christine down with a wave of the hand.
It was now only Christine and this senior nurse who stood there waiting. Christine attempted to mirror the woman's confident stance, but she was too anxious and too intrigued by this last truck to achieve the pose.
Finally, the vehicle stopped with a crunch of dirt. This time two men stepped out from the truck, one a soldier with an expression frozen in something close to alarm, the next another soldier, but older and likely higher rank than the first. Quickly, Christine moved to join the younger man at the back of the truck.
She stood in anticipation as the young man unlatched the large door. She wasn't sure what she expected to see, but when the door finally opened, the dark, empty truck was not it. It took her a long moment to realise the truck was in fact not empty, but in the far back was a man lying on his back, another man, perhaps a medic, kneeling beside him.
The young man jumped into the truck, and the two men carried down the injured soldier on a stretcher, Christine assisting from the ground. As they moved around the truck and towards the stairs, the older nurse called to her.
"Christine," she said, turning away for a moment from the older man she was speaking with. "Escort those men to your ward. There's a bed ready."
Christine nodded, then began leading the men up the steps. The first time she'd had to do this, show men to her ward, she'd gotten both her and the other men lost in the Grand Palais, much to her mortification. This time, however, she knew very well where she was going. Almost as a professional would, she thought with a proud puff to her chest.
She walked the two men through a long corridor, the intricate marble floor and pristine walls a pleasant distraction to the men as they carried the stretcher. The group was able to somewhat take their time, not having to wade through the crowd of nurses and patients alike, though now and then a doctor or military officer would pass by. Christine took this time as she walked alongside the stretcher to examine the patient who she would be caring for.
There wasn't much of note about him physically, besides just how long and thin his body was, his legs hanging off the stretcher awkwardly, making it difficult for the men to carry him without stumbling. As her gaze moved along his body, up along the thin, bloodied shirt where his right arm lay in a tight sling, she eventually reached his face—or more so the lack of a face.
Bandages, red and dirty, were in the place where a face should be. His eyes, closed, could be seen through the mask of stained fabric, and even from where she stood Christine could make out the red and tender skin. Just as she did with every new patient, she wondered just what evil he'd seen and what horrors he'd experienced to cause such injuries.
They eventually arrived, and in the ward were a few familiar nurses, all tending to their new patients, ensuring they would be as settled as possible for their first night in their foreign home. Among the nurses she spotted Meg, speaking with a young man as she changed his bandages. When they made eye contact, Christine smiled, and Meg returned it, but something in her smile seemed wrong. Of course, Christine didn't have time at the moment to ponder the strangeness and moved to find the ward's head nurse as the two men trailed behind her. She found Madame Dupont as she finished speaking to another nurse.
"Madame? I was told there was a free bed?"
The short woman looked her over, then her gaze fell on the men behind Christine and the stretcher they held. "Yes, that one right there," she said, though she seemed to hesitate a moment before pointing them in its direction.
Christine didn't waste any time, and soon enough the men were finally relieved of their awkward burden. They thanked her and promptly left, the younger man leaving the ward entirely as the medic went to speak with Madame Dupont. Christine wasn't completely sure how to make this new patient comfortable, but she did her best as she tucked the thin sheets snug around the lower half of his body. She shifted his left arm gingerly, taking note that it too was wrapped entirely in bandage, just as his entire body seemed to be. It was only when she finished that she noticed what lay on the table close to the bed.
It was her Sherlock Holmes novel. It was the one she'd left by Pierre's bedside for him to read through as he'd all but begged her to, and there was just no saying no to that boy. So it confused her how it ended up here. She assumed another patient had borrowed it, which she didn't mind. Then as she turned to move away to another task, she stopped dead. Her gaze fell upon her wooden chair, tucked away on the other side of the bed. This was Pierre's bed, but he was gone.
The fog pulled at her shaking hand, but she brushed it aside. He must have been moved to another ward, for patients who were in need of more attentive care. The cold fear she felt was ridiculous and irrational.
She turned, aiming to find Madame Dupont and ask about her friend's new whereabouts, when she was met with the woman herself, standing stiffly at the end of the bed. She had that same sternness to her expression, but there was a softness to the strict furrow in her brow. "Christine, I must speak with you."
"Oh, yes, of course, Madame. I actually wanted to speak with you as well. Would you happen to—"
"Christine."
Christine stopped fidgeting with her hands, trying to stop the shaking she couldn't explain. The sudden serious look, different from all the stern glares the woman wielded, made Christine shrink.
"There is no simple way to say this." Madame Dupont then paused for a moment, every second another weight dropped in Christine's stomach. "This patient has passed."
Christine had nothing to say, and yet she had a thousand questions, all forcing their way out of her throat. "When?" This was the only one she could manage.
"Over-night."
It was like falling into a cold lake and then touching fire. A small breath was all she could manage, not from shock but to manage the building of tears forming in her eyes. "Was he—did he…" she steadied the tremble in her voice. "Did he go peacefully?"
"Yes, dear, he did."
Christine took another breath, great relief at the knowledge that her friend didn't suffer in his final moments. There was a false feeling to it all, however, like she would look down to see him there, smiling a crooked smile. She looked down at her old friend's bed, a stranger in his place. Christine was helpless to the fog's pull.
"He was unintelligible through most of his final hour," spoke Madame Dupont again, unfamiliar solace in her typically severe voice. Then she paused. "However, he asked me to give you your novel back."
Whatever hold Christine had previously over the wall keeping her tears at bay failed her, and her hand rushed to muffle the quiet cry that escaped her. It was true, but she refused it.
Madame waited patiently, letting Christine stand with her head bowed. When she was confident she could speak without her voice breaking, Christine pulled her hand away to swipe at her wet cheeks.
Madame Dupont watched her for a moment. "I don't mean to be cruel, but you must take this as a lesson, Christine." At this, Christine met the woman's eyes, furrowing her eyebrows.
"A lesson, Madame?"
"A lesson in the danger of growing attached."
When Christine didn't respond, Madame Dupont decided to continue. "You are a good nurse, Christine; but you are young and so easily hurt—if you allow yourself to be. You will watch many more men die, and if you let it hurt you like this, you simply won't be able to manage. If you are to remain here, you must assure me you won't let this happen again."
Christine wiped at her cheek. "I won't," she said, and she meant it.
"Good." The short woman then folded her arms behind her back. "You may take a few minutes to…collect yourself."
Christine simply nodded, and with that, the older nurse left. Christine didn't move, hardly even bothered to breathe, until she heard a sound like a timid bird.
"Are you alright, Christine?'
She looked up to meet Meg's worried eyes, and Christine wasn't sure if she was mortified, or utterly relieved. "Yes," she said instinctively.
The usually cheeky girl had a look of remorse on her face, and her eyes were downcast as she spoke. "I heard about Pierre. I know you were fond of him. I'm… so sorry."
The words didn't help, didn't clear the numbing fog creeping up to her shoulders and weighing her down, but Christine smiled. At least she tried to, but it was like her lips refused. "Thank you."
Meg seemed to be lost for words, so she pulled Christine into an embrace. Then, knowing there wasn't much else to do for her but give her space, Meg moved away, not before resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.
When Meg was gone, Christine didn't move. She didn't even wipe the stray tear that stalled along her cheek. Instead, she watched the room. She watched nurses and doctors move through their routine motions, watched patients talking with one another or sat silently in thought. It was all familiar, and it was all so normal—but how dare it be normal? Pierre was gone and nothing had changed. He was simply one more soul lost in the sea of hundreds. The fog found its way into her chest and squeezed her heart in its cruel grip. She took another minute before she turned to take her novel from the table. She wondered if Pierre had managed to finish it.
Then her hand came to a halt mid-reach. There on the bed was the man with the face of bandages. He was watching her through dark eyes.