"And he says he thinks of nothing but me!"
Christine hummed in groggy-morning irritation in response to Meg, who was insistent on conducting her public reading of Phillipe's most recent letter. She sighed as the blushing Giry nearly bumped into the wall as she twirled around with the letter in hand. Christine on the other hand, sat on the puffy stool in front of their small vanity mirror, was focused on taming her beast of curls into a manageable bun.
"He wishes he were by my side this very moment!"
It was the hardest part of donning the uniform, her headscarf resisting against the strength of her hair. Again Christine's hand fumbled with the white cloth, then pricked her finger with the blasted pin.
As Christine sucked on her sore finger, Meg came into view of the mirror with her head settling above Christine's shoulder, eyes still glued to the paper in her hand. Meg had already read this letter, and she had already read the letter three times aloud, but Christine wouldn't fault her friend's excitement. Still, Meg was also doing nothing to help in Christine's plight against her unruly curls, and she finally had enough of this foolishness.
"He says he loves me truly and—and when he returns home, he'll marry me right on the—Christine! Give that back!"
Christine snatched the letter from Meg's hand, leaving the headscarf forgotten on the vanity's counter. She danced and spun away from Meg's grabbing attempts to take back her letter, all the while the two laughed and stumbled around their room. They were lucky they didn't bump into each other, or the paltry amount of furniture in the shared bedroom, only space enough for the vanity and two white-quilted beds.
Another jump and Meg nearly caught the letter, but Christine was using their height difference to her advantage. She laughed at all her friend's grunts and curses.
"If you don't give that to me this instant Christine Daaé I'll–I'll–"
"You'll?" Christine mocked, unnecessarily extending the last consonant. "What will you do, little Giry?"
"Yes, Marguerite. What will you do?"
"Oh, Maman!" Meg jumped in surprise, just as Christine yelped pitifully. The sight of Madame Giry in the doorway, dressed to perfection in her nursing uniform, nearly sent them both toppling over. At once, the two stopped their playing. A raised eyebrow creased the older woman's forehead as her eyes narrowed lightly.
Anyone else might have shrunk away from the lean women's gaze, so stern and piercing it could strike a man sharp across the face. The girls knew far better, however—knew the woman enjoyed teasing them with mock harshness.
They stood straight as needles while the woman strode over to them. Then she snatched the letter from Christine's still outstretched hand. With a flick of her wrist, she silenced Meg's mortified protests.
For a moment she read the letter, nothing but Meg's mumbled groans between them. That familiar gleam surfaced in Madame's eyes as she lifted an eyebrow at her daughter.
"Marry you on the spot, will he? Perhaps 'Your Phillipe' and I must have a conversation upon his return."
To that, Meg completely buried her face in her hands. Christine and Madame Giry locked eyes in a mischievous glance. Then, as the merciful woman she was, Madame held the letter out to Meg, who promptly unburied her face and finally snatched it back. The humiliated girl's cheeks tinted a deep crimson as she stalked off to finish dressing.
"Now, Christine," Madame said, fully turning to her, who was still giggling. The sudden attention on herself pulled her away from making faces at the fussed Meg in the corner. "Where is your headscarf? Truthfully, ladies, I expect you two to be ready when it's time to leave."
When Christine told her tale of woe and tangled curls, Madame huffed. Nonetheless, she led Christine back to her spot by the vanity. Madame took her place behind Christine, expertly taking the nurse's headscarf and wrapping her head effortlessly, as if her curls proved no hassle to the experienced woman.
A moment passed where they were content in the peaceful silence. When Christine looked to the edge of the mirror, where she had tucked her own letter from Raoul, she caught Madame's eye in the mirror.
Christine averted her gaze from the knowing woman's stare. Bashfully, she looked for something to occupy her mind as her cheeks warmed. She finally decided on her hand, her left hand, where her ring-finger glittered in the window's light. The ring, modest but so beautiful, coaxed her lips into a grin.
"And what about you, Mademoiselle? How is that boy?"
There were many fears that came with Raoul's departure, but high on that list had been the possibility of her dear friend losing himself in all the cruelties of war. In his letter, she found solace in how like himself he seemed. Christine knew nothing of war, besides the fear it brought with it, and she worried that war would corrupt her friend's kind heart. There was no worry in his words, nothing but that familiar comfort that came with his smile. After four months away, she already missed that smile terribly. Her own smile faltered, and Madame's hand laid itself on her shoulder, comforting Christine with the stroke of her thumb.
With a last fold, the headdress was securely in place, the only evidence of fierce hair the little curls that peaked out here and there around her hairline. "There. A fine nurse you'll make, my dear."
A quick flash of a memory, the words my dear still fresh in her mind, even months later—even if spoken in another language. Christine blinked away the deep, angelic voice.
"Do you really think so?"
Christine held faith in herself—if her father taught her anything, it was to have faith. She couldn't help, however, the nervousness that made her fidget with the end of her headscarf, like toying with the ends of her hair.
"Oh, I'm sure we'll fit right in," Meg chirped from her corner, officially finished sulking. Christine turned in her seat to look over her friend, finding Meg clad in her uniform, headdress and all, a sight she never thought she'd see. "We certainly look the part," she added with a twirl, looking like a little dove in all the white fabric.
Christine turned away from her friend then, looked once more in the mirror to study herself. The headscarf fit snugly over her head, only mildly uncomfortable; but it also made her chest puff lightly with pride. With what little she could, she was contributing. No standing idle, no quietly waiting for it all to be over. With a smile, she relished in what reflected in the clouded glass.
"Yes," she said, still looking at her reflection. "I think you're right."
Twenty minutes later, in the dark shop's window as she passed by, her reflection looked far less convinced. She didn't get a long look, Madame sped down the street in a poised but rushed manner, the two girls struggling to follow close behind. What she did see, all that was left of her previous confidence, was a paler than usual girl, curls popping out from all angles and a face scrunched with nerves.
The street they walked was unfamiliar, and yet it was a street she'd been down many times before. At one time, it had been brimming and bubbling with life. It breathed excitement into the day and music into the night. A time didn't exist when the roads went unoccupied. Now the only occupants left were fliers dragging on the ground and the dust ridden wind that pushed them onward. The recent fright, an attack from the sky only a few weeks prior, had left no one in a particular hurry to take to the streets.
Now it was rare to catch sight of another person walking by. In most cases, when someone appeared on the path, it was a soldier, a rifle slung over his shoulder and his gaze that of an eagle's. The young men watching over the streets stopped the three women a few times, wanting to know who they were and where they were going. Each time Madame would strike them with her signature eye, explaining: "We are simply going to work, Monsieur. That should be clear by our uniforms, no?"
Thankfully, they arrived without injury, even with Madame berating the guards any chance she got.
"Any more distractions and we'll be later than we already are," she said as they rounded a corner. "Between you girls and these men, we may just arrive after the war is over."
Meg piped up beside her, saying something or other about the war and Phillip, but truthfully Christine couldn't focus on her voice; not when gazing directly at the Grand Palais. Merely a five-minute walk away was the beating heart of the city, made of towering white stone and a roof made almost entirely from sea-foam glass.
It was here, many years ago now, where the city's many joyous exhibits had once taken place. Balloons and streamers had filled the enormous space; crowds had waited in anticipation for the new automobile model to be revealed. A little Meg continuously jumped up and down to get a better view, while timid Christine stole peeks from her place cowering behind her Madame. As they pulled away the cloth to reveal the strange invention, the crowd erupted into oohs and awes. It was a childlike wonder that brought Christine out from her hiding spot, wanting to get a better look with Meg.
The Grand Palais would no longer be hosting the exquisite art shows or automobile displays. Now what looked like a half-a-dozen automobiles sat right at the front steps of the property, all shiny and new. Men were stepping out of them, dressed in fine suits or general's attire. As they reached the front steps, Madam greeted the men that lingered there, smoking pipes or cigars of tobacco.
From afar, the Grand Palais seemed radiant, glimmering in the morning's light. Now moving up its steps, the pillars and arches made her queasy, and she swore it hadn't been this enormous when she was small.
At the front entrance, a beautifully carved door opened to reveal another woman, dressed in the same nurse's uniform of white smock and collared undershirt. She was stern like Madame, with a nose the same as her stature, short and stocky. She opened her mouth to speak, but Madame beat her to it.
"Louise, you needn't tell me we're late. I'm aware."
Louise Dupont's mouth clicked shut. Madame moved past her, Meg and Christine exchanging a moment's glance before they did the same, moving past the short woman with far less confidence. Christine fiddled with her headdress as she walked, securing its place and fussing with her curls. Immediately after crossing the threshold, however, her hands dropped, mouth agape.
If she thought the Grand Palais was breathtaking from the outside, her lungs may as well have ceased working entirely at its interior. There were no words yet discovered that could describe how that roof glistened like stained glass in a cathedral, how it sent a glittering light to hang over the green steel linings of the domed roof and walls.
"I don't recall it being this beautiful," Christine said to Meg beside her. The two leaned over the railing of the second floor, having dashed off like giddy children. Down below were a sea of people; nurses, doctors, and generals alike, all moving with purpose like ants working in a colony. Meg, speechless for once, stood awed, just as Christine was.
At the clearing of a throat behind them, the two awoke from their trance. They turned back to where the two women stood waiting, mirroring each other's crossed arms and serious lips. "Well, are you ladies ready for your first day?"
The girls couldn't have nodded with more enthusiasm. A suppressed smile pushed against Madame's stiff cheeks.
Training went as one would except for the two. Christine and Meg just barely kept their heads above water. Their period of training lasted a fortnight, in which Madame Louise took scrupulous care in ensuring the girls would be prepared for what was in store for them. Their duties, as they learned rather quickly, would not be the exciting and life-changing events they imagined. Madame Louise tutted at their inquiries, mainly Meg's, for more important work. "In time, ladies. You're far too inexperienced for that sort of thing. You must be patient. Any work you do makes a difference."
"I fail to see how changing bed sheets is making much difference in the war effort," Meg said one morning. Using more force than necessary, she struggled to re-slip a pillow into its case. "We've become more glorified-maid than nurse, Christine!"
It was still a strange sight; the many hospital beds lined one after another seemed out of place within one of the exquisite rooms of the Grand Palais. The ordinary white of the sheets clashed with the building's intricate architecture, however they sort of glowed in the light of the numerous, arching windows. It was the building's magnitude that made it so valuable as a hospital; the more beds there were, the more soldiers they could care for.
Christine pulled a sheet snug around the thin mattress they stood by. She didn't want to let Meg distract her; they needed these beds made and ready for when the patients returned from morning baths. "Meg, you know what Madame Dupont said—"
"Yes, I know, I know." A grunt. "I simply don't want to do this forever, that's all." Another grunt.
Christine began working on a pillow herself, stifling a laugh at Meg, who was still trying and failing to fit the pillow into the stubborn case. "Well, we don't just make beds."
"Oh? And what else do we do, Christine?"
"We fetch breakfast," she said with a smirk and laugh at Meg's eye-roll. "Speaking of which, isn't it your turn to speak with René about today's menu?"
The mere mention of his name was enough to make Meg jolt. "No, it's not! It's Marie's turn!" And just as Meg uttered her name, the tall redhead a few beds down—who had obviously been listening—shot up from where she was smoothing a blanket.
"It certainly is not. "
Speechless, Christine paused her work as the two women went back and forth, tossing the unwanted duty at one another like a scorching coal. If she'd never met the man first hand, Christine might be confused. However, the large man with a scar ranging right down the side of his face, across the white of his dead-eye, was surely enough to intimidate even the strongest will.
Eventually even Marie began shifting blame, pulling poor freckled Annie into the mix. Laugh was all Christine could do, for how could she reveal now that it had been her turn all along to pay the chilling man a visit. She felt sorry as Annie stammered and stuttered, but how could Christine have known Meg wouldn't see through her teasing?
Then, in the heat of the moment, as Meg nearly flung a pillow at Marie's head, everyone all but froze as Madame Giry clicked into the room.
"Is there a reason you ladies have ceased working?"
Initially, no one wanted to speak. Then everyone wanted to speak all at once, meaning Meg and Marie talked over one another as Annie and Christine remained silent.
"Enough," Madame commanded, calm, but with such severity neither young woman dared argue. There was something off, however, something Christine couldn't fully unravel. Perhaps it was the woman's stance, far less sure of herself than usual. There was something else, too. The missing gleam in the woman's eye.
"Really, Madame…I wouldn't mind going," said Annie, soft as a little feather.
Madame Giry shook her head. "No, Annie, that is quite alright." She then turned to Meg. "Marguerite, you will speak with Monsieur Boche," she said, holding up a hand to silence Meg's final complaints.
No room left to dispute it, Meg left, not without sticking her tongue out at Marie first, the redhead throwing her own rude face at Meg.
Once Meg was out of the room, the remaining girls finished folding quilts and tidying bed pans. Shortly, breakfast began, on the menu some new flavour of sweet oatmeal, or mush, whichever way you looked at it. Patients thanked the young women as they brought in their food, some eating, some not without a dose of persuasion. Following their food would come something even more difficult to persuade the patients into consuming: their medicine. Some patients were better than others, but none were as bad as Pierre.
"Oh, god—not this again," said the young man leaned up against his many pillows. His bowl of breakfast was still on his lap, but he'd paused mid mouthful, seeing Christine return medicine bottle and spoon in hand. "Please, Christine. It tastes of sewage."
Pierre was among some of the first casualties housed in the Grand Palais. He was a young man Christine believed couldn't be older than fifteen, no matter what he claimed. His leg was what the war stole from him, taken slightly above the knee. He was the first amputee Christine had ever met, and certainly wouldn't be the last.
"Oh, it can't be that terrible," Christine said, setting the objects down for a moment to move the bowl from Pierre's lap. She shouldn't exactly speak on the matter, she'd not so much as smelt the strange, thick liquid. Still, it would make the boy well again, and it was her job to make sure he took it.
"But it is Christine, really."
"And how would you possibly know what sewage taste's of?"
His eyes, which he often used as offensive weapons when losing, were that of a pleading little dog—too endearing for its own good. He had the effect a child had on their mother, using his goodness to get his way. Fortunately, the closest thing to a mother Christine ever had was Madame Giry. She poured the tar-like liquid onto the spoon.
"Open."
The battle won, Pierre reluctantly took the medicine, not without an overdramatic grimace. Christine nodded curtly in satisfaction.
After she made sure he entirely swallowed the medicine, she tucked the spoon and medicine into her smock's pocket. Then she took the bowl from the table beside Pierre. Her mind on the number of other duties she had before lunch, not to mention cleanup required after breakfast, she turned to begin her next task.
"Christine?"
She turned once again to meet the little dog's eyes. "Yes, Pierre?"
"Could you...read to me again?"
Reading with Pierre had become habit over the past weeks. Occasionally, she would be chosen for night shifts. The first few times were rather intimidating, the unusual quiet of the daunting rooms and endless halls making her jump at any miniscule bump. Eventually she took notice of Pierre and his trouble falling asleep, and so she would spend parts of her shifts at his bedside, reading to him from whatever novel she was currently moving through.
"I don't have a night shift this evening," she said and his eyes sank away, the nervous smile faltering. "But I wouldn't mind staying late tonight." And that was all it took for an immediate crooked smile to take hold of his expression. She returned the look, happy to be the source of that smile.
"Thank you."
Around lunch was her second favourite time of day. As prescribed by the all-knowing doctors, patients who were able must spend large amounts of time outdoors: "fresh air as valuable as medicine," one doctor said to her.
The only thing more exquisite than the Grand Palais itself was its gardens, just behind the beautiful stone hospital. Paths of flowers spiraled out from the many wood benches littered about the grounds. Winding stone walkways intertwined with the foliage, and at the center of it all was a glorious statue and fountain, water trickling from the angel's horn. Often she found herself by that statue, pondering the angel's impassive, familiar face.
Despite the view and pleasant company of friendly patients, the end of her shift couldn't have come sooner. After serving dinner, some sort of chicken stew, she made haste to meet Meg and Madame by the front hall. When she arrived, she caught the end of Megs' complaints about sore heels. Stranger was Madame, not chiding the girl's whining or commanding she fix her posture, or anything of the sort. Instead Madame stood silent, lost in something on the wall Christine couldn't see. Finally she acknowledged Christine's presence.
"There you are. Now come, girls, we need to make a stop on the way home for dinner."
"Would it be alright if I stayed late tonight, Madame?"
"That Pierre boy again?"
Christine nodded.
Madame hesitated, but an accommodating sigh told Christine her answer. "Don't expect dinner to be there waiting for you if you arrive late. Come, Marguerite."
Before her mother dragged her away, Meg shook her head in mock sadness. "Poor, poor Raoul. He is oblivious to your heart being snatched right from his hand."
Christine swatted at Megs' giggling shoulder as Madame ushered her daughter out the front door. Other nurses bid Christine farewell as their shifts ended also, some inquiring about her staying, but it was always a passing question. She made her way into the familiar chamber where men continued to eat dinner and talk amongst themselves, though the farther into the evening, the quieter the room seemed to grow.
In her regular spot on a rickety chair at Pierre's bedside, she read aloud the mysterious mayhem that was Sherlock Holmes. It so happened that as she turned the page and looked up to see how he was liking it, she didn't see Pierre demolishing his food like a starved hyena. Very unlike himself.
"Is that all you're going to eat?" She asked, and he merely shrugged. He had hardly touched the broth meal, leaving it on the table beside him to become cold and unappetizing. He shifted against the pillows he leaned on, a grey tint to his skin she hadn't noticed before.
"I'm not uh… not hungry," he replied with a simple swat of his hand. "Please keep reading, it was just getting good."
She didn't like the colourless look to his usually rosy cheeks. Despite his pleas for her to continue, she stood and placed the book on the wooden chair. Laying the back of her hand on Pierre's forehead, it was clear he was burning up something awful. "I'll get the doctor."
He close to squeaked at the mention of the doctor. "No, not yet. Couldn't we just finish this chapter?"
"You're not well, Pierre. I'm afraid I can't let you sit there with a fever like that."
"Please?"
And how could she say no to him? Still, she wouldn't let him lie there in discomfort, either. With her best effort, she re-fluffed his pillows and took the damp cloth from his table. She re-wet the cloth in a basin close by, laying it smoothly across his feverish forehead. Even in his poor health, Pierre grinned all the way through the rest of the chapter. Many patients who had finished their dinner, many in no mood to talk, listened to the reading, and she smiled at the quiet sounds of surprise and shock that came when the twist was revealed.
"But how'd he figure it out?" One patient asked, one who's bed neighboured Pierre's. Christine turned to him with a wry grin.
"I suppose you'll just have to wait and see."
Groans followed her as she stood up. It was incredibly tempting to stay and finish the rest of the novel, her own gnawing curiosity threatening to get the best of her. However, her stomach had been twisting and turning the past few paragraphs and she would be more upset going to bed without supper than the novel's conclusion.
She bid the men who were still awake farewell and assisted the nighttime nurses in cleaning up dishes left after dinner. Still, after it all, she seemed to be making good time, even with the tram's out of commission. It was because of that fact, as she walked the familiar streets against the setting sun, that when she came to the right turn that would lead her directly home, she instead made a left.
The orange sun was still visible over the cities' dim homes and buildings, the shadows cast dark mahogany to cover the stone like honey. The click of her nurses' heels on stone was all that cut through the quiet of evening, no guards or passersby's in sight.
When she came to the familiar steel bars, the reason for her detour, her hands lay on the cool steel, and she was met with music. Sounds of orchestra filled the stillness of the air. The power of an aria lifted through the sky. In an instant, however, the music was gone, her own nostalgic sigh filling the silence.
The music was merely in her memories. Between the bars of black steel, the dark, Grand Garnier opera house lay dormant, another casualty of war. Its dark windows and quiet doors struck her heart. How many countless nights had a young Christine and Meg loitered just outside these gates, to catch glimpses of the beauty just outside their reach? They would play pretend, pretend they were among those beautiful women, dressed in gowns with gentleman at their elbows. Christine had even been so crazy to think she could belong on those stages someday; make use of the gift of music her father had given her. With a last squeeze of the metal bars, Christine pulled away from the lull of her fond memories.
Christine knew how fortunate she was. Without Madame Giry, she very well may be on the streets, like so many of the other poor children orphaned far too soon. Christine was fortunate, for without Madame, she would have remained that shattered little child, left with only the memories of her father's music to swaddle her away from the cold. Only his old violin to cling to. In his last days, in his final moments, Christine's father promised her an angel, one that would bless her with music to fill his absence. She'd waited, and she'd waited, and every night she would kneel by her bed and pray. The angel never came to her. Twelve years old, she decided she was finished with being a child. Along with the many childish things gave away, she gave away the hope of ever receiving her father's final gift. Even after her lack of faith, her disregard for her father's passing wish, just as her father promised, her angel came to her.
There was no other explanation for how that dark man had materialized in her time of need. In the form of a mysterious shadow, her angel appeared before her—had dried her tears with a tender voice. Now she waited impatiently for his return, in each shadow, in every window, behind every voice. He would return to her, grace her once more with his comfort.
She suddenly came to find herself standing at the foot of a familiar bricked building. Within it, on the tallest floor, Christine finally pushed her way into their home; a small apartment, just large enough to house three women.
The little wooden table was in the entrance view of the kitchen, and there setting it was Meg. She paused mid placing of a bowl. "Look who's finally returned to us, Maman," she said with a pleasantly surprised smile. The warmth of the girl's teasing was welcomed, especially considering the biting chill that had creeped into the late autumn season. What more was that intoxicating smell, one that indicated Christine had indeed made it home in time for supper.
Without turning, Madame greeted Christine absently from her place facing the stove, stirring the source of that wonderful smell. Not waiting to reach the bedroom, Christine began releasing the tight hold the headscarf had around her curls. The instant relief that lack of pressure brought was indescribable. When in the privacy of the bedroom, she made haste in stripping away her nurse's uniform and preparing for supper. In the mirror her curls looked like that of a lion's mane, messed and tangled from the day's imprisonment. Too starved to care, she would deal with them later that night.
When she returned, the table was fully set, including a seated Meg who toyed hungrily with a spoon. Christine rushed over before Madame could begin pouring the soup, imploring the woman to take a seat. Unlike her, Madame did so without even a word about Christine's demanding tone or talk of her disorderly hair. Curious, but too famished to think properly, Christine would wait until she'd eaten to inquire about the woman's peculiar mood.
When they were sat, it would be now that they prayed before the meal. However, Madame remained quiet and still, her gaze on the hands clasped in front of her. The two younger women's eyes met with worry.
"Maman?" Meg spoke unsurely, but still nothing was said.
Finally Madame broke the silence. "I will not delay this any longer. There is news I must share with you both, and it must be tonight." The woman looked away from her hands of stone. There was something behind her eyes, not the gleam, but something Christine never saw on the woman's face before. Fear.
"I have been requested to take up the role of field nurse," she said, then paused for a beat. "And I have accepted."
Questions bubbled and sloshed in Christine's mind, but Meg found the words before she could spit them out herself.
"What… what does that mean?" The quiver in Meg's voice made Christine wilt. They both knew what it meant.
Two hands reached over the table then, and Christine took hold of one, Meg reluctantly taking the other. Madame clasped the girl's hands, as if at any moment something would yank them away. "It means by the end of this week I will be leaving you."
The three of them were like statues, unmoving, hands clutched in each other's. The sniffles of a teary eyed Meg broke the somber quiet. She pulled her hand from her mothers, before pushing up from the table.
"Marguerite—"
But Meg rushed away with a quiet sob. Now it was only the two of them at the bleak table. "Perhaps this news would have been better announced after dinner," said Madame, the fragment of humour lost in her downcast eyes. Christine hiccupped a small laugh, having trouble with her own tears. Madame met her eyes with a tight hand-squeeze, grounding them both. "Be strong for her, Christine."
There was a moment of doubt, of uncertainty in her abilities; but Christine would not let herself disregard faith a second time. "Of course."
She wiped away her tears. Christine would be for Meg what Madame had been for her all those years ago. She owed her Madame Giry that much, at least.
"Thank you."
They stayed there, hand in hand, for a moment longer.
After cleaning up the barely touched dinner, Christine bid Madame goodnight. In their hug, she held on to her protector just a minute longer.
In their room she found poor Meg in her bed, curled up into a ball, golden hair strewn across her pillow like a halo. She must have wept herself to sleep. The idea shot a sharp ache to Christine's heart. She gently rested a hand upon her sister's head, swept a strand of frayed hair behind her ear. Christine would be her protector.
Before Christine let sleep carry her away, she knelt by her bedside. She faced the bedroom's meagre window, her elbows upon the mattress and hands folded in prayer. Up to the night sky, she prayed.
She prayed to her angel.
Among the many soldiers in that hole of filth, his resting place among death and desolation, he did his best to grasp sleep. Unlike other men, he hadn't a wife or child to drown out the images of red waste. What he did have was that short moment. The moment he'd latched onto like a desperate man to a cliff.
That peculiar little light... that laugh, so warm. Nothing so pure had ever been directed at him before. Images of that beauty consumed his mind, until sleep dragged him off into darkness.