The conclusion to 'The Price of Duty'.
A huge thank you to Bertina, for the prompt and enthusiastic beta.

Chateaurenard
The Camargue
29th January, 1919

Walter Stollenberg sat by his window staring out at the flat, grey expanse of salt marsh. Above it, a flat, grey sky mirrored the cold desolation of the landscape, and of his heart. For him, the stillness and silence that had come to the Carmargue with the onset of winter was comforting. He welcomed the way its frozen bleakness matched his prevailing mood and cut him off from all the trivialities of humankind. In the three months since the arrival of the first frost, he had conversed with only two other people - the owner of the village grocery and the local priest.

The conversation with the shopkeeper had been tolerable and necessary. His pantry needed replenishing and he had been able to keep it very businesslike. The conversation with the priest had been different, and uncomfortably social in nature. The man, a native of bustling Marseilles, evidently missed the city and its society and was in need of the kind of intellectual stimulation the local peasantry could not supply. He had been waiting for months for Walter to make an appearance in church. When it became plain that was not going to happen, he had cycled out to welcome him personally to the locality.

Walter had been as respectful as he could, but with his grip on the social graces tenuous to say the least, he had let the man know his intrusion was unwelcome. Less than a quarter of an hour after he knocked on the door, the priest was leaving again. Walter had watched him ride away on his bicycle down the muddy, narrow road towards the tiny village and as the silence closed in around him again, he had returned to his solitary study of the shapes made by the burning coals in the hearth.

But the Carmargue was much more to him than a peaceful safe haven. In the first few hours after he regained consciousness in the field hospital at Clermont and discovered that he had been condemned to live, it was the very notion of the place that had saved his sanity. His thoughts had been filled with dreamlike images of its wild, empty landscape and the goal of reaching it had become his obsession in the pain-wracked days and nights that followed, giving him something to focus on, something to pin his future to.

Of course, by the time he was well enough to be moved to a convalescent home, he had come to realize that the obsession was nothing more than the morphine-induced re-awakening of a dream that had faded long ago. Slowly, as he recuperated and won back his strength, its siren call receded once again into the distance of his subconscious.

On the morning of his release, Charlotte had driven out from Paris to bring him home. From the first moment, they had been tense and awkward with each other and being together seemed to grow more difficult, not easier as the day passed. So as soon as the silent dinner was over, Walter pleaded exhaustion and retired to his room. But by the end of the first week, it was plain that his presence in the household was creating nothing but tension and disruption.

Unhappy though he was, it was Charlotte who was most adversely affected. The war had changed her life beyond recognition. Thanks to the trust fund Walter had set up for her before he left for the front, she was financially secure and she had made a new life for herself in liberal, forward thinking Paris, where the pre-war attitudes and customs had been thrown away like a pair of old worn out shoes. For almost five years she had been the mistress of her own destiny and she had grown accustomed to it.

No matter how benign his intentions, Walter's return threatened that independence and suddenly she found herself trapped between the need to honour her marriage vows and the reality of living with a man she no longer recognized or needed. It was an impossible situation for them both.

Walter had watched her struggle with her conscience for another month and had found himself overwhelmed with relief when she summoned up the courage to suggest he travel to their villa in Nice.

"Sunshine is what you need," she told him.

He was even more relieved when she had looked away and told him that she would not be accompanying him there.

"I understand, my dear," he told her. "It's truly for the best."

When she looked back at him, there had been a moment of unfamiliar openness between them as they realized that their words had settled something much more important than the matter of a trip south. The relief she too felt, was written on her face, and like his own, it was tinged with sadness and loss. He had taken her in his arms then and they had held onto each other for a little while as the last certainty of their old lives had slipped away.

Three weeks later he had kissed her good-bye and had driven away through the busy Paris traffic towards the south. Making good progress he followed the planned route until he came to Avignon. Driving into the old city, he turned southeast towards Provence. At Arles he stopped off at the offices of a local land agent. The papers to be signed were ready and waiting for him and the man, who was also the Notary Public for the district, oversaw the signatures that made the transfer of ownership legal.

From there it was only a short journey to the Carmargue.

The little house he had bought, sight unseen, was simple to the point of bareness, but it had everything he needed. When he sat in its garden or lay unmoving in bed at night, the only sounds to be heard were those of the wind blowing in from the sea and the babble of the Brent geese out on the marsh.

The healing he so badly needed, began almost immediately. He could feel it in his mind and soul, more than in his damaged body. Gradually, the images and the sounds of war that had been his constant companions for four years began to fade from his waking memory. His days were filled with a blank routine that required nothing of him but existence - and it made his existence bearable.

The nightmares were a different matter, however. Though not as frequent as they had been in the hospital, they still plagued his sleep. In them, the thud of ordinance and the smell of death returned with a clarity that tore him sweating from sleep. Still, they no longer overwhelmed him as they had done in the beginning and he was hopeful that they could eventually be laid to rest along with his other ghosts in the solitude that surrounded him.

When the priest turned up on his doorstep a second time, it was not from the desire to be social, but from the need to ask a favour that could mean the difference between life and death. The epidemic of influenza that had been sweeping the world had somehow found its way to the remote little village. Ten of the villagers, mostly the very young and very old had already succumbed to the deadly virus. Of those who remained, over half were infected and the rest were barely coping with the task of nursing the sick. A little girl, Isabeau Forget, whose brother and father had already been taken, was the latest to fall ill. The doctor was not hopeful about her chances of survival and he was even more concerned about the fate of her mother should the child not recover.

He had arranged for her to be treated in the hospital in Sainte Maries de la Mer. She needed to be transported there quickly and since Walter was the only inhabitant, apart from the doctor, who owned a motor vehicle, the priest came to ask for his help.

"I would not impose on you, sir, but Dr. Bujold cannot be spared -"

Walter waved away the need for an explanation and immediately fetched his coat. He and the priest drove back into the village. The child's mother was waiting on the doorstep of the family's narrow, stone house in the centre of the village when the motor car pulled up. She wrapped her shawl around herself more tightly and called into the house. The priest opened the rear door for her and helped her climb in as a man carried out what looked like a bundle of blankets and placed it on her lap in the back seat.

"Thank you, sir," she murmured, glancing up at Walter.

He nodded and steered the car along the road towards the sea. When they had reached the coastal town, he followed the instructions the priest had given him and within minutes he was parked outside the hospital and was carrying the child up the steps into its antiseptic interior. An orderly took the little girl out of his arms and headed towards a set of double doors.

"I will wait here for you, Madame," he told the distraught mother.

She thanked him again and hurried after the orderly. Walter was shown to the waiting room with its view of the sea. After three or four hours in the stuffy warmth of the room he drifted into sleep ...

... it had turned cold and the clouds were so low and thick that it felt like night. They had been waiting two days for the order to attack. When the whistles sounded, ending the awful anticipation, they cheered. The cheer became a battle cry as they scrambled over the top.

A quarter of them died in the first minute, never making it as far as the vicious barbed wire. Leading the way for those who remained standing, Walter ploughed through the quagmire of craters and unexploded shells and corpses. From behind them came the constant thud of artillery, laying down covering fire, in front of them where the telltale flashes of machine guns, and the churning of the earth each time a shell exploded. Seven minutes of hell later, they fought their way, hand to hand, into the enemy trenches.

The general's reply to his report of 'target achieved' had been ecstatic. When asked if he wanted to send a response to the general's message, Walter simply shook his head and instead he began issuing orders and his officers began making tallies of the dead and injured. It took two hours to verify all the names. The list he was handed told him that more than half of his men were dead or badly injured. When the figures for the whole sector came through, he learned that two and a half thousand men had died, their lives offered up in exchange for one hundred and twenty metres of blood soaked soil.

The bombardment ceased suddenly and there was a small moment of blessed silence, then the screaming began. It came from men trapped or dying in no man's land. They were the enemy, but that didn't make it any easier to listen to. The other side retrieved as many of their injured as they could. No one fired on the sorties that emerged from their new forward positions. But some of their dying were too far away for them to reach, or were too badly injured to move. So they went on screaming, through the night and into the next day.

By the middle of the second night only one man continued to scream. About six a.m., just as the first glow of dawn appeared in the sky, the screaming became moaning ... an hour later it turned to whimpering ... at the sound of it Walter reached breaking point ... he began climbing out of the trench ... his own men pulling him back ... he fought them ... and reached the top ... there was the flash of a mauser ... and the death rattle sounded loud in his ears ...

... the dying soldier's ...

... and his own ...

"Sir! Sir!" The man shook him out of the nightmare. "You are dreaming, sir ... "

He opened his eyes and looked around. He had no idea where he was, then he recognized the orderly's uniform and he remembered the sick child, and the journey to the hospital.

A dream. It had been a dream, the one that always gave him the most grief. He took a deep breath and relaxed back into the uncomfortable, leather armchair.

"Have you any news of the little girl?" he asked.

The man shrugged.

Walter searched his memory. "Isabeau ... Isabeau Forget?" he remembered.

"You will have to ask as the desk, sir," the man told him.

He picked up his coat and walked to the lobby. No one was at the desk. He waited for a few minutes, then walked to the double doors leading to the wards. He looked through one of the circular window. The corridor beyond was empty and he began to turn away ... then he heard it ... a whimper. His hand gripped the door handle tightly in reaction to the sound. He pushed the door open slightly.

He listened.

Nothing.

It is only the dream, he reasoned, knowing how they sometimes lingered in his mind.

But just as he was about to release his hold on the door, the whimper came again, this time followed by a harsh cough and a sob. He opened the door fully and stepped into the corridor. The smell of antiseptic was overpowering and other sounds clamoured for his attention, but he held still ... waiting ... listening. The next time the whimpering sounded it led him to a door immediately on his right. He pushed it open.

The room was sparsely furnished. Its walls were white. A simple crucifix was the only decoration. A Sister of Charity sat by the bed, saying her rosary.

Lying in the bed was Alexander.

Walter drew in a shaky breath and leaned his hand against the doorpost. The nun looked up from her prayers and saw him.

"Sir," she held out her hand in warning. "This patient is infectious. Please leave at once."

He didn't hear the words. His coat fell to the floor as he strode to the bed. Sitting down, he placed his hands gently on either side the deathly pale face.

"Alexander," he called softly.

The whimper sounded again, tearing at him.

"Alexander," he repeated, more forcefully.

The eyelids struggled to open and it was many long seconds before the green eyes focused on his face.

"Alexander," he said, beseechingly.

The cracked lips began to move, but only the barest whisper sounded. Walter leaned down to place his ear against them.

"Am ... am I dead?" Alexander asked.

Walter looked back at him. "No, Alexander," he said defiantly, "you're very much alive ... you're here with me ... and you're going to stay with me."

There was no reaction to his words, but the effort to speak had initiated a bout of coughing in Alexander. He became agitated, fighting for each painful breath, his lips taking on a bluish tinge. Trying not to panic, Walter stood up and wrenched the tightly tucked bed linen free. Reaching under Alexander, he raised him from his flat position on the bed and looked around for more pillows to prop him up. There were none. Sitting down on the bed again, he pulled Alexander towards him and leaned him against his chest, his hand moving in soothing circles across the young man's back.

"Breathe, Alexander, breathe. Everything's going to be fine. You're safe now, with me," he whispered into his lover's ear.

"Sister! Nurse!" he called, noticing the woman was no longer in the room.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when two orderlies burst into the room. One of them began to lift Alexander out of his arms while the other caught hold of his right arm in a manner that showed he meant business.

"Don't be awkward now, sir," he instructed. "You have to come with us."

Walter didn't move a millimetre, nor did he release his comforting embrace on Alexander.

"Step back," he warned the two men, "or I will not be responsible for my actions."

His voice came out as a kind of low, intense rumble. The men let go and looked back towards the door where the nun was standing.

"Sir," she began, "we are acting in your best interest -"

"I'm sure you are, Sister, but I'm not in any danger. I have been exposed to this disease many times and have never become sick. Not that it would make any difference. I'm staying here with Alexander."

There was an absolute finality to the words.

"Now," he continued, "get me some pillows ... and the chief consulting physician."

She issued an order to one of the orderlies, then he heard her quiet footsteps retreat down the corridor. Walter straightened a little and allowed Alexander to fall back into his supporting arms so he could look at his face. The intensity of his coughing had eased and the blueness around his lips was disappearing.

"Get some water," Walter instructed the remaining orderly.

The man walked around to the little bedside cabinet and poured some water from the carafe into a glass. Leaning across the narrow bed, he held the glass to Alexander's lips and allowed a tiny sip to pass between them.

"Drink, Alexander," Walter coaxed and immediately the young man swallowed convulsively.

"Give him some more."

The man began feeding him water and Alexander drank it down greedily. After the fourth swallow Walter said, "Enough."

Alexander moaned.

"There'll be as much as you want later," Walter promised.

Just then, the other orderly returned with an armful of pillows and, as Walter continued to support him, the two men banked them up behind Alexander. Gently, Walter laid him back against the supporting softness and got his first good look at his lover.

He was desperately thin, his skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones. His beautiful sable hair had been shaved to almost nothing. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to remain conscious. He moved restlessly in the bed, his breathing shallow and laboured.

"Go to sleep now, Alexander," Walter told him. "I'll be here when you wake."

Almost at once, the young man's body relaxed back into the pillows and Walter felt his own tension ease. He reached out to take Alexander's hand in his own and it was only then that he noticed the empty sleeve. He ran his hand up along it until he felt the end of the misshapen stump.

"Oh sweet Jesus ... " he murmured.

A shudder passed through Alexander's body and he hurriedly released his grip on the damaged arm. His breath caught in his throat and a wave of nausea swept through him. Not at the thought of the disfigurement inflicted his beloved's body, but at the pain and fear Alexander must have endured because of it. The nausea passed quickly, though, and it was replaced with anger and remorse that he had not been there to protect Alexander from such an obscenity.

But before he could dwell on it, a man in a crumpled white coat bustled into the room, quickly followed by the Sister of Charity.

"I am Dr. Vaillancourt, the chief clinician of the hospital, sir. I believe you wish to speak with me?" the doctor said, brusquely, coming to stand beside the bed.

Walter stood up and looked him straight in the eye.

"What is his condition?" Walter asked.

"Sister?" the doctor said, reaching out his hand.

The nun unclipped a clipboard from the end of the bed and handed it to him. The doctor flipped through the sheets attached to it, giving each one little more than a cursory glance.

"The patient has been given the standard treatment and has been made as comfortable as possible." He shrugged his shoulders. "It is now up to nature to run its course."

He handed the clipboard back to the nun and said, "If you would excuse me, sir, I have many other patients to attend."

He headed towards the door. Walter reached it before him and blocked his way.

"That is not good enough, doctor."

"Really, sir, I don't -"

"The child ... the little girl I brought to the hospital ... Isabeau Forget. The doctor in Chateaurenard sent her here for specialist treatment."

"That is something ... unproven ... something that one of my junior doctors read about in a journal. I only agreed to it because the child is dying. Whatever we do now will make little difference to the outcome."

"What is Alexander's prognosis, doctor?" Walter asked bluntly.

The doctor glanced back at the young man lying in the bed and heaved a weary sigh.

"It is not good, sir," he answered.

"He won't survive the night, will he doctor?" Walter continued.

The man shook his head, then took a few minutes to weigh the risk against the certainty before coming to a decision.

"Very well, I will send Dr. Hebert to you, Mr. - ?"

"Stollenberg."

"I will also need to you sign a consent form. What is your relationship to the patient?"

"I'm ... his brother," Walter lied, not altogether convincingly.

"You are Mr. Baden's brother?" the doctor asked, his eyebrows rising.

"I meant ... half brother ... of course," Walter replied, even less convincingly.

The doctor gave Walter a skeptical look, but he made no further comment. Taking back the chart from the nun, he returned to Alexander's bedside and began reading through it more carefully.

"Sister, please fetch Dr. Hebert," he requested.

The young doctor who returned with the nun several minutes later looked completely worn out. Nonetheless, he assisted the older physician with a degree of enthusiasm that increased markedly when he was asked his opinion of Alexander's suitability for the new experimental treatment.

At Walter's insistence, before doing anything, they explained Alexander's condition to him in layman's terms. Listening carefully to the doctors' words, he learned that the greatest danger to patients who contracted the new strain of influenza was not the illness itself but rather its tendency to open the way to more deadly germs. Having come through the acute phase of the disease, Alexander had somehow contracted a secondary bacterial infection that was rapidly developing into bronchopneumonia. Left unchecked it would destroy his lungs, and eventually lead to toxaemia and heart failure.

That much he understood, but when they began talking about 'irregular pyrexia' and 'leucopoenia' he interrupted them.

"What does this new treatment involve, gentlemen?" Walter asked.

"We will begin with a 'roentgenograph' and a Wassermann reaction test to see what we are up against," Dr. Vaillancout began. "If it is the type of bacteria I suspect, I will then prescribe a drug called 'epinephrine' ... " the doctor's voice trailed away as he looked down at Alexander.

Taking hold of his jaw gently, he moved Alexander's head from side to side. Walter immediately recognised the symptom the man had noticed, a faint bluish tinge creeping over Alexander's face. He knew what it meant as well as the doctor.

"Sister," the doctor called. "I want you to start this patient on oxygen immediately."

The nun left with an orderly to fetch the equipment.

"These are just the first steps in the treatment," Dr. Vaillancourt said, turning to Walter. "We will see how he responds over the next twelve hours. Now, Mr. Stollenberg, I have something to say to you. I will give permission to remain in this room on one condition only, namely that you obey the instructions of the nursing staff and do not get in their way. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, doctor," Walter agreed.

"Good."

The next few hours were hectic. With the oxygen mask fitted, Alexander was wheeled down to a room in the basement where a film of his chest was taken. Through it all Walter held his hand and explained everything as simply as he could. The only time he left the young man's side was for the few moments when the 'roentgengraph' machine was activated. As soon as the green light came on again, he returned to his sentry position at the side of the trolley and helped wheel it back to Alexander's hospital room.

Already, the oxygen was making a difference. Alexander's breathing was becoming easier and a little colour was returning to his face. When Doctor Hebert came back carry out the blood test and to administer the drug, he told Walter that the processed film had shown the pneumonia to be much less advanced that they had feared. He said it was a good sign

It then became a matter of vigilance and careful nursing. Twice in each hour a nurse came to take Alexander's temperature and listen to his lungs and heart. Regularly he was bathed and turned in the bed. Cold compresses were administered to his forehead, while warm packs were placed across his chest.

Tired of having Walter hovering over them to no purpose, the staff began to involve him in the care of Alexander. He was given the responsibility of getting as much fluid into him as possible. He also helped with the lifting and bathing, but undoubtedly his most important contribution was his presence. He became the constant reassurance Alexander needed when the pain was bad and the fear threatened to overwhelm him.

In the snatched minutes whenever the nurse on duty left the room for supplies or to answer a summons, he would gather Alexander into his arms and tell him about Chateaurenard and the little house, and make all sorts of promises about how happy they were going to be living there. As he talked he could feel the body in his arms relax a little, though Alexander's hand always held on to his shirtsleeve as tightly as his weakened state would allow.

Around three a. m. on the second night, Walter noticed a change in Alexander's breathing. It was a faint wheezing that alerted him first. For nearly ten minutes he listened intently. It became more obvious with every passing minute, as did Alexander's increasing agitation. He let go of the hand he was holding and walked to the other side of the bed.

Shaking the nurse awake, he said, "Fetch Dr. Hebert. Something's wrong."

Walter's words jolted the nurse into awareness and he went to check Alexander's condition. The worried expression he wore when he finished, confirmed Walter's fears. As soon as the man left the room, Walter took hold of Alexander's hand again.

"You are not going to let this beat you, Alexander. Do you hear me?" He demanded. "You're a fighter ... a survivor ... you're stronger than this -"

Dr. Hebert's entrance halted the tirade and Walter glanced over at the physician with a look of desperation on his face. What he saw did not comfort him. The young man looked as though he should be in a sick bed himself. Still, he immediately put on his stethoscope and placed it to Alexander's chest.

"Roll him onto his side," he instructed Walter. "I want to listen at his back."

Walter gently turned Alexander and held him in position. The doctor listened intently for several minutes.

"You can put him down on the bed again," he said.

"What is it?" Walter asked.

"Fluid is pooling in his lungs. I'm going to have to drain it off."

Walter swallowed hard, but he nodded his agreement.

"What can I do, doctor?"

"You can hold him."

It was one of the hardest things Walter had ever had to do, but he held Alexander securely against his chest and used all his strength and courage to give him the support he needed. Even before the procedure was completed, he could feel the improvement it brought about in Alexander's breathing and when he laid him back down on the bed and wiped the sweat from his face, the exhausted man was comfortable enough to drift off into a deep sleep.

Walter drew his own first easy breath of the night as he watched the doctor insert a tube into a vein in Alexander's arm so a constant supply of isotonic glucose could be drip-fed to him.

"That's as much as I can do, Mr. Stollenberg," the doctor said when he finished writing up the notes on Alexander's chart. "Now it is up to him."

He left then and Walter returned to his vigil.

Within minutes of his sitting down in the chair, the nurse fell asleep once again. Walter was happy to let him sleep. It gave him a degree of privacy with Alexander that was very welcome. Unobserved, he was free to dwell on each expression that passed across Alexander's face and to hold his hand. As the hours passed he catalogued all the changes adversity had wrought in his beautiful lover since he had last seen him, five long years before.

Compared to what had been done to his arm, the small scars and incipient wrinkles on his face were nothing. If anything, each imperfection, whether small or large, only served to make him more human and vulnerable in Walter's eyes. They also reminded him of his own words and their validity, 'Nothing this world can do, will ever change how beautiful you are to me.'

But he had another, more urgent reason for his close observation of Alexander. He watched for signs of cyanosis and listened intently for any change in the rate and depth of his breathing. He also monitored the dial on the oxygen tank so that he could have its replacement into position when it was needed, and kept watch on the glucose drip so he could set it flowing again whenever it seized up.

By eight o'clock the following morning, the constant vigilance and anxiety had left Walter in a state of exhaustion. Dr. Vaillancourt came into the room on his rounds and after examining Alexander and finding his condition satisfactory, he turned his attention to Walter.

"I'm prescribing a minimum of six hours sleep for you, Mr. Stollenberg," he said firmly.

"I can't leave -"

"You will be allowed back in at 2 o'clock, not a minute before. You'll find the Hotel Mirador in the Rue Rodin, that's to your left as you leave the hospital. It's clean and comfortable."

"But -"

"Mr. Baden is doing remarkably well. I believe the worst is over. You, on the other hand, look like death warmed over, and I can assure you I have all the patients I need at the moment."

With a final glance at Alexander's sleeping face, Walter reluctantly left the room and followed the doctor's directions to the hotel. The weariness that overtook him as he turned the key in the lock meant he didn't even get undressed before stretching out on the bed and falling into a heavy sleep.

An insistent knocking on the room door woke him five hours later.

"Sir, it is one o'clock. You asked to be woken at this hour," a muffled voice called. "Are you awake, sir?"

Walter climbed out of the bed, noticing how crumpled his clothes were.

"Yes, I am awake. Thank you," he answered.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and walked to the window. As he opened it, a bracing wind from the sea filled the room with the smell of salt and fish. He breathed it in, savouring every easy, oxygen filled breath, and thought of Alexander. He hurried to the telephone on the bedside table and cranked the handle.

"Front desk," a voice responded immediately.

"This is room seventeen. I want you to send up a pot of coffee and some croissants as soon as possible."

"Very good, sir. Anything else?"

"Can I have a suit pressed immediately?"

"Of course, sir. I'll send someone up for it."

Less than an hour later, he was walking into the hospital feeling refreshed and rested. He didn't ask anyone's permission to enter Alexander's room, though he did knock quietly on the door before he pushed against it. What he saw when it swung open, brought a smile to his face, Alexander was awake and sitting propped up against a hill of pillows. The oxygen cylinder with its mask stood unneeded in the corner of the room. The intravenous bottle and frame were gone altogether and the sister who had been on duty the day he found Alexander was standing beside the bed, holding a spoonful of some kind of mushy food to his lips.

Alexander looked over at him and a ghost of a smile materialized on his face. He tried to push the nun's hand away, and grimaced when she gently swatted his hand away and continued to force the food into his mouth.

"I'll take over, Sister," Walter intervened smoothly. "I'm sure there are other duties needing your attention."

She put the spoon back in the dish and waved a warning finger at her patient.

"Eat it all, Alex," she ordered.

Alex.

Her use of the shortened name made Walter halt in his tracks, though only for a second. It sounded so strange and yet ... so right. He tried it out.

"Well enough to be causing trouble I see, Alex."

It felt as right as it sounded and ... Alex ... didn't seem to notice the difference.

"Walter ... " he whispered croakily.

"Don't try to talk. You're going to need all your energy to eat this," he warned.

Alex frowned deeply and sealed his lips.

"That's not going to work," Walter told him matter-of-factly, "so you may as well make the best of it."

While Walter kept up the small talk, Alex stoically ate as much of the pureed food as he could. Only a few spoonfuls remained when the nun came in to check on him, and she relented on those when she saw how tired he looked. She quickly took his temperature and pulse rate and noted them down on his chart.

"Time for a nap," she stated, looking pointedly at Walter before beginning to remove some of the pillows.

"No," Alex said as forcefully as he could.

"Your brother can wait in the lobby, Alex. I'll call him as soon as you wake."

"Brother -?" Alex asked, looking confused.

"I'd like to remain with him, sister," Walter interrupted before any damage could be done. "I'll make sure he sleeps."

She was not happy with such flouting of the rules, but she gave in and picking up the dish, left the room.

Alex was staring at Walter.

"I had to pretend to be related to you, or they would have thrown me out," he explained, pulling up a chair and sitting down close to the bed.

Alex reached out to take his hand and held onto it tightly. Walter looked down at their clasped hands and said, "I take it this means you have no objection to there being a connection between us?"

Alex held on even tighter and smiled.

"Don't remember much ... but ..." he whispered with agonizing slowness, " I know ... you saved my life."

"You weren't the only one I was saving," Walter whispered back. "Now you'd better try to sleep, or that nun really will have me thrown out."

"You stay ... promise?" Alex asked, his eyes beginning to close.

"Always."

Sleep took hold then and he slipped into its healing arms.

With Alex off the critical list, the nursing staff became less tolerant of Walter's presence and promptly at eight o'clock he was sent away with the other visitors. Before leaving the ward, however, he stopped at the Sister's office to ask who it was that had brought Alex to the hospital. She checked her file and referred him to the almoner's office in the main lobby.

A worn looking, middle-aged man was working late in the small office when Walter knocked on the door.

"Come in," he called.

"I'm looking for some information on Alex Baden, Ward 6," Walter explained.

"Charity case?" the man asked.

Walter bristled.

"Perhaps," he conceded, watching the man go through a card index. "Though not any more. I am his brother. You can send the bills to me."

Walter wrote his name and address on the sheet of paper the man gave him and left it back on the desk.

"Ah, yes, here it is. I remember this one," the man said taking a card out of the drawer. "Mr. Baden was admitted a week ago."

"How was he brought here?"

"Old Mr. Fourier, from the livery stable across town brought him in. He had been doing some odd jobs around the stable for the old man ... well, as much as he could with the disability. Fourier couldn't pay him much, but he let him sleep in the hayloft. He felt bad about having to sign him in as a charity case, but times are hard, sir, as you know," he finished, eyeing Walter's expensive coat.

"Is that all you know?" Walter asked.

The man looked up at him nonplussed.

"I would have thought that since you are his brother, sir, you would -"

"We lost touch at the beginning of the war," Walter interrupted. "I happened upon him by chance when I was asked to bring a patient from Chateaurenard here to the hospital."

"Ah, how fortunate for you, sir," the man told him.

He stood up and walked to the back of the room. Hunting though a dozen bundles of clothing lying on a shelf, he found the one he was looking for. He checked the label a second time and brought it over to Walter.

"I'll need you to sign for this," he said, sitting back down at this desk and taking out a form, which he stamped and dated.

Walter signed it and thanked the man. He carried the bundle back to his hotel and ordered dinner to be served in his room. While waiting for it to arrive, he untied the rope holding the bundle together and spread it out on the bed. It consisted mostly of mismatched, old clothes, but hidden here and there among them were a few personal items. In the toe of a sock he found a gold pocket watch and a signet ring. He wound the antique watch carefully and listened to its fine mechanism springing into life. Setting it to the correct time, he discovered that it chimed each quarter hour with a pleasant musical phrase. The signet ring bore the crest of the Zahringan-Baden family and was studded with several square cut diamonds.

He put the jewellery aside. The next item he found was a flat, black leather box that fitted into the palm of his hand. He undid the clasp and opened it. The contents made him gasp. Resting on its velvet lining and threaded with a scarlet ribbon was a 'Croix d'Honneur'. On the reverse face of the medal was engraved, 'Alex Baden - 1918'. Reverently, he set the box on the bedside table and searched through the rest of the clothing. Inside a jacket pocket he found a wallet containing a few francs, Alex's identity documents and his military discharge papers. Tucked into the back of the wallet was a page torn from a picture book. He gently unfolded it, careful not to let the worn creases fall apart.

A stampede of wild Lipizzaner horses thundered across the page. Walter smiled, realizing how much he owed to the book from which it came. He refolded the page just as carefully and put it back in the wallet, then setting aside the military discharge papers and the jewellery, he gathered up the entire worldly possessions of Alexander Zahringan-Baden into a bundle and tied it again with the length of rope.

He put the bundle into a dresser drawer and slipped the jewellery into the breast pocket of his jacket. Settling back on the bed, he read through the discharge papers. Unsurprisingly, it was a medical discharge and it showed that Alex had been awarded a small pension because of his disability. The recommendation for the pension was counter-signed by one Lieutenant Colonel Michel Janffre.

After dinner, Walter sat down at the desk and wrote a letter to the Lieutenant Colonel. In it, he introduced himself as Alex's half brother, and imposed on the man a request to furnish the details of Alex's military career and an account of how he had sustained his injury. He included the name of a high-ranking officer in the French army who could vouch for his good character and signed the letter using his own military rank and the name of his former regiment.

The next afternoon, Alex was stronger and much more vocal. He could remember snatches of Walter telling him about a little house near Chateaurenard and he wanted to hear more. Walter indulged him by describing all of the house's quirky features in great detail.

"... so obviously the builder didn't own a metre rule, since no two doors or windows are the same size ... nor have I been able to find a single right angle in the entire place," he finished.

"That doesn't mean it isn't a good house," Alex countered.

"It is a very good house and I have been content living in it," Walter said, his tone becoming measured and thoughtful. "But it is just a house, not a home."

"Your home is elsewhere, Walter, with your wife and family," Alex said, the brightness fading from his eyes.

"Wherever I will call home, it won't be with Charlotte. She and I have parted ... amicably ... there will be no reconciliation."

Alex lay very still, apparently in deep thought.

Walter looked at him hopefully.

Alex said nothing.

Walter huffed in an irritated fashion. "I'm going to be the one who has to ask, aren't I?"

Alex's fear melted away and he smiled at Walter.

"No, you already asked the question ... a long time ago and the answer is still 'yes' ... but this time it is given with a free and willing heart ..." he told his lover. "... a little peasant house in the Carmargue shared with you is the only place I want to call home." But the tiny doubt that lingered made him add, "That is, if you want me."

"Want you?" Walter asked, making no attempt to hide the hunger in the words and in his eyes. "There are so many ways I want you, I don't know where to begin."

Alex was stunned by the intensity of Walter's words, and the expression that appeared on his face made Walter's ardour suddenly cool. He smiled.

"Don't worry, my love, I have no intention of ravishing you in your sick bed."

Alex smiled back. "Well, if I ever needed an incentive to get out of it ..." he began, but he didn't finish the sentence, and his face clouded with some unspoken worry.

"What?" Walter asked.

"I've changed, Walter ... I'm not the same person, in mind or in body."

"That's what life does to us all, my love. No one escapes it, especially in wartime."

"If you are sure ...?"

"I'm sure."

"There's one more thing ..."

"What?"

"I can't ever talk about it ... the war, I mean ... or even the time before ... "

"I understand, Alex. The only thing I value from the past is knowing you. Let the devil take the rest of it."

When, two days later, he returned to his hotel and opened the package that was waiting for him, he understood Alex's reluctance to talk about his experiences in the war. It contained a long letter from Lieutenant Colonel Janffre and a copy of Alex's military record. He read through both with slow deliberation. The file gave the facts, the letter told the story.

Private Alex Baden had volunteered within months of the outbreak of hostilities. At his own request, he was assigned to a regiment already at the front. There he was quickly identified as an able soldier with leadership potential and was promoted to sergeant, then to lieutenant with unusual haste. Janffre's words placed no gloss on Alex's approach to soldiering, describing him as ' ... a completely ruthless and driven killing machine ...' Walter had encountered soldiers like that at the front. They were the men who had nothing to live for ... nothing to lose. He read on.

Janffre described how the enlisted men in his unit had followed him slavishly in the beginning. He took care of them. His unit had the lowest casualty rate and the highest kill rate in the detachment. But then, as his orders became increasingly reckless, the men began requesting re-assignment to other units.

'They still followed him, of course,' Janffre wrote, 'because he is a leader, and because his own fearlessness inspired their loyalty. But mostly they followed him because they were afraid of him and because they knew that if the circumstances warranted it, he would be as ruthless with them as he was with the enemy."

He went on to tell how orders to withdraw Alex's unit from the front line came down from regimental headquarters, and how Alex was ordered to report for a psychological assessment. But it never happened because his file somehow passed across the desk of an officer in military intelligence who diverted it to his commanding officer. Less than a month later Alex was transferred to the intelligence corps.

Janffre could tell him nothing about Alex's work with military intelligence, and the next time the officer heard of him was when his name appeared on the list of those being awarded the Croix d'Honneur. He referred Walter to the medical report that had led to his discharge from the army.

Walter took out the copy of the report. It made grim reading, but the sentence that stood out contained the words: '... clearly the amputation was not carried out in a surgical setting, nor was it performed by a physician."

Walter sat staring at them for a long time, then feeling drained, he collected together all the papers and returned them to the file. After putting it away in the drawer along with Alexander's belongings, he took out a sheet of writing paper and began composing a letter of thanks to the Lieutenant Colonel.

Alex grew tired of the hospital routine very quickly and, even though Walter spent every second of the permitted visiting times at his bedside, he was soon agitating to be set free. A combination of his promises to be a model patient at home and his increasingly restless behaviour eventually persuaded Dr. Vaillancourt to give in and sign the release form. On the day it was handed over, Walter, armed with two pages of nursing instructions and a box full of medication, hurried home to get everything ready. The next morning, he paced the living room waiting for the ambulance to arrive from the hospital. When he spotted it approaching from the direction of the village, he went outside to watch it complete the final kilometre of its journey then he helped the two attendants lift the wheelchair, containing a happily grinning Alex, out of the back.

Walter thanked the men and pushed the wheelchair up the path and into the house.

"Welcome home, Alex," he said, pulling his lover up into his arms.

Unable to reply in words, Alex leaned forward and placed his lips against Walter's. By any standard it was a timid, almost chaste kiss, but it was given with love and trust and for both men it marked the moment when life began again.

Walter smiled at his lover and eased him down to sit on the settee by the fire. He fussed over his pillows and blankets until Alex pushed him away.

"I'm hungry, Walter," he declared. "Hungry for some real food."

Immediately, Walter disappeared into the kitchen ...

They spent the day talking and planning what they would do with the thirty acres of land that had come with the house. There was even an argument over Alex's demand to be taken out to see the yard and pasture at the back. Of course, Alex prevailed and wrapped up in four layers of wool he was wheeled out into the winter sunshine.

As he watched his lover close his eyes and breathe in deep lungfuls of the clear, crisp air, Walter knew he had been right to give in, the slow journey to recovery that lay ahead Alex would not be furthered by treating him like an invalid. Nonetheless, after twenty minutes in the cold, Walter was wheeling him back inside, oblivious to the threats and entreaties.

At seven o'clock, when the weariness started to show on Alex's face, Walter went upstairs to light the lamps in the bedroom. He carefully broke open the fire that had been banked down all afternoon and watched it flame into life before adding fresh coals. Downstairs again, he wheeled Alex to the privy and helped him inside to attend to his needs. Then he wheeled the chair to the foot of the stairs. He didn't intend there to be an argument over what had to happen next, trying to climb the stairs would exhaust Alex, so he simply reached down and picked him up.

It was an indication of how tired his lover must be when there was no argument. Alex just wound his arm around Walter's neck and let him get on with it. Setting him down on the edge of the bed, Walter closed the door. Alex glanced round the simple room. It was just big enough for the iron framed double bed, a wardrobe, a dresser, a washstand and a chair. The addition of a camp bed in the corner behind the door left little more than breathing space.

"I hope the previous owners left that behind by mistake," Alex said, eyeing the freshly made camp bed with distaste.

"That is the thoughtful gesture of Madame Avare. She will be coming up from the village every day to help out until you are on your feet again. You'll meet her tomorrow, she is ... well ... she is Madame Avare."

Walter began taking off Alex's boots.

"Won't her presence in the house make things difficult?" Alex asked.

"Not at all. The whole village knows the story of how I found my long lost brother while performing a good deed," he continued. "It was carried back from the hospital by Father Lambert. I am told he preached a sermon on it."

The thought of that made them smile at each other.

"And since we have proved to be such an inspiration to our neighbours, I think it would be wrong to correct any minor misperception the good father and his congregation may have formed."

Alex laughed aloud and began unbuttoning his shirt. Walter took over from him and swiftly undid and removed the garment. He was dreading the next moment, for though he had seen the damaged arm several times in the hospital, it had only been at times when Alex was either semi or totally unconscious. He let his gaze rest on it for a moment then he looked into Alex's eyes and began stripping off his own clothes.

When he stood naked in front of his lover, he ran his hand across the ugly, jagged scar that traversed his belly and abdomen. Alex looked at it, his shock and concern driving all thought of his own injury from his mind. He reached out towards Walter and gathered him in, his arm wrapping around Walter's waist and his face pressing against Walter's chest.

"How?" he asked.

Walter caught hold of his head in gentle hands and coaxed him to look up before he said, "We're leaving the past in the past. Remember?"

"But-"

"I survived, Alex. That's all that matters."

He gently manoeuvred himself out of the protective embrace and knelt down on one knee to undo the button fly on Alex's trousers. With Alex's help he tugged them and the woollen 'long johns' down and off and tossed them both across the camp bed. Eagerly he looked back at his lover, sitting open and vulnerable before him.

"Ah, just as I remember," he said, sighing happily.

Alex gave him a gentle cuff round the ear, then glancing down Walter's body to his groin, he murmured, "Me too."

Walter grinned and bent down to lay a trail of kisses up one thigh and down the other. Alex laughed out loud at the ticklish sensation and ran his hand over Walter's balding head.

"Something has changed, though ..."

Walter diverted from his task, looked up sharply.

" ... but I like it ... it's right somehow ... and it's a sign of virility ..."

With a blank expression, Walter stood up and began folding back the thick down quilt and under sheet.

"... not that it was ever in question ..."

Walter scowled and lifted Alex's legs into the bed. There was a soft thump as the young man fell back against the pillows.

"Does this mean I'm going to get a demonstration?" Alex asked, staring up at him hopefully.

Walter's resolve nearly cracked then but he managed to keep control of his mirth.

"This means you're going to sleep," Walter told him, pulling the quilt up to under his chin and tucking it in tightly.

A minute later the lamp was doused and Walter was sliding in beside Alex, taking him in his arms. The bed quickly filled with their body heat and settling further into his lover's warm embrace Alex said, "These words have waited a long time, Walter ... I love you."

Enough light was spilling out from the fire for Walter to see Alex's face clearly. Tempted though he was by the beauty of the man, he contented himself with placing a soft kiss on his lover's mouth and with listening to the easy sound of his breathing as it settled into an untroubled rhythm. It was a long time before Walter joined him in sleep though. The feel of having his lover in his arms where he belonged, was just too intoxicating to be let slip away easily. Eventually, of course, his body's need for rest won, and around two o'clock in the morning, when the fire had burned low and the room was quite dark, he drifted off.

He woke abruptly five hours later, one split second before the climax of an intense dream of him coming deep inside his lover. Unsurprisingly, he found he was hard and aching, his penis pressed against the cleft in Alex's rear. He choked back a groan and began to pull away from the deliciously warm body in his arms. He didn't get very far.

"Mmm ... where're you going?" Alex mumbled.

"It's time to get up, Alex. I'll -"

"I think you're up already, Walter," Alex interrupted, chuckling as he turned onto his left side to face his lover. "And I think I need to do something about that."

"No ... " Walter murmured, pulling away further, " ... this is too soon ... you are not ready for this."

Alex followed him across the bed. "I am ready for this, Walter. I want this. I want to be close to you. I want to feel you and to hear you. Let me do this ..."

Walter relented and allowed Alex to lie along his right side. Alex kissed him then and slid his leg between Walter's, forcing them apart. His hand traced patterns through Walter's chest hair and plucked at his nipples while his leg pressed gently but insistently against Walter's testicles. Walter moaned and his hand moved down to take hold of his own penis. Alex caught it by the wrist and laid it flat on the bed.

"That's mine to take care of," Alex told him confidently.

Walter moaned again, but it didn't bring any urgency to Alex's ministrations and he returned to Walter's nipples. This time using his mouth on them, sucking and licking in no particular pattern, as he listened to the needy sounds of his lover.

Finally, after several minutes of teasing caresses to his testicles, Alex's fingers wrapped themselves around Walter's penis and began a firm massage. Very little more stimulation was required because the man was so hard and so in need of release, just one swift sweep of his thumb over the exposed glans and Walter was coming and yelling as hard and as loud as was humanly possible.

"That's it, my love ... give it me ..." Alex was coaxing and laughing. His hand milking every last drop of come and pleasure out of his lover's orgasm.

Afterwards, as Alex trailed his fingers through the sticky mess on Walter's belly, it was the older man's turn to be held and watched as he slipped back into sleep.

A month later, Walter hauled the last bucket of hot water up the curving staircase to the bedroom. The countryside was still in the grip of winter and he had insisted on placing the old copper bath that usually stood in the upstairs washroom before the fire in their room so Alex could bathe in comfort. For once, Alex had not complained about his protective streak. There had been ice on the inside of the washroom windowpanes that morning and even with the fires burning all day in the hearths, the washroom temperature was still hovering around freezing.

Closing the door on the draughty landing behind him, Walter carried the bucket over to the bath.

"Ready?" he asked.

Alex nodded and sat forward so Walter could carefully rinse the soap out of his hair. Enjoying the way the water flowed and cascaded through the sable waves, Walter noted with satisfaction how quickly Alex's hair was growing. He estimated that another month would bring it to just about its perfect length. With a sense of anticipation he set down the bucket and handed Alex a small towel to wipe his eyes.

"Are you ready to get out?" he asked.

"No ... it will be a while yet," Alex answered in a self-indulgent tone, sinking back into the warm depths.

"Hmmm ..." Walter murmured and sat down in the armchair beside the fire.

He turned up the wick of the lamp and lifted his book then he opened it at the bookmark and began reading, his booted foot finding a convenient place to rest on the rough stone of the fireplace. In his peripheral vision he was aware of Alex's movements; the way he occasionally ran the soapy washcloth over his chest and shoulders, and how he settled his head more comfortably on the folded towel that Walter had placed between it and the hard rim of the bath.

How well Alex was feeling showed in his eyes and in his eager demeanour. Steadily, day by day his health and strength were returning and though he still tired easily, more often than not, there was a good reason for it. Just that day he had spent all morning working at little tasks around the barn and paddock. In the afternoon they had driven over to see old Mr. Fourier and had eaten lunch with him and his wife.

On the way home they had stopped in at the grocery store in Chateaurenard to order a month's provisions and there they had met Madame Forget. At her insistence they accompanied her home to see Isabeau who had been released from the hospital just two days before. The visit turned into having dinner and it was well past nine o'clock before they arrived home.

And through the whole of the long, strenuous day there had been no breathlessness and no pain.

Alex bent his knees and sank even deeper into the water, rinsing off the last of the soap, then he levered himself up again.

"I'll get out now," he said.

Closing his book, Walter fetched the towel that had been warming over the fireguard and slung it over his shoulder. He reached down and took hold of Alex's outstretched hand and with a well-judged effort, he gave his lover enough lift to stand up out of the water without sending it splashing over the bedroom floor.

Dripping and flushed pink from the warmth, Alex grabbed the towel off Walter's shoulder and began drying himself briskly. As he stepped out onto a second towel, Walter dipped the bucket in the water to begin the tedious job of emptying the bath and walked to the bedroom door.

"Walter ... " Alex called out to him in a strangely awed voice just as he reached it.

Walter turned back to look at Alex and found him staring down at the way his penis was making a good attempt at getting half hard. He dropped the bucket with a clattering splash and crossed the distance back to his lover in two strides. Sinking to his knees, he engulfed the entire organ in his mouth and began sucking gently. Alex drew in a gasping breath and cupped his hand tightly around the back of Walter's head.

Afraid that Alex might lose the tenuous erection, Walter began adding little teasing touches of his tongue to the sucking. The response was a gratifying lengthening and hardening of the penis and he slowly pulled off it until only the head remained in his mouth. The sensations his talented tongue bestowed on it were enough to bring Alex the distance to full erection. With a few final licks and sucks on the glans he allowed the wet organ to bounce free from his mouth and he sat back on his heels to view his efforts.

The sight was beautiful and arousing, as was the look on Alex's flushed face. Standing quickly, Walter half carried, half dragged Alex over to the side of the bed and manoeuvred him back to lie on it with his legs hanging off the edge. Pushing them apart, Walter knelt down between them and once again took the penis in his mouth, sliding his lips up and down it this time in a regular rhythm.

Alex groaned noisily and his hand clutched at the bed linen. Reaching up, Walter's fingers began nipping and rolling Alex's nipples, making each little movement fit the rhythm his mouth had established. Steadily, he began increasing the speed and the intensity of what he was doing with his mouth and fingers, and beneath him he could feel a satisfying tension begin to coil itself tighter and tighter in Alex's groin.

He spilled suddenly and silently on a down stroke of Walter's mouth, filling it with his bitter, enticing come. Walter released him carefully and swallowed. As he stood up to fetch the washcloth from the bath, feeling almost dizzy with euphoria, he heard Alex laugh.

Abandoning the washcloth, he climbed onto the bed and took his lover in his arms, joining him in the laughter.

When it subsided, Alex told him, "You know I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to be able to ... if that was ever going to happen again."

"Can't keep a good man down," Walter told him, only to receive a hearty thump for his trouble. He ignored it and continued, "This merits a celebration. We have a bottle of good champagne in the back of the pantry. I'd say it has Little Alex's name on it. I'll go fetch -"

"Oh no," Alex told him, "no champagne for me." He pulled Walter down into a lush and sensual kiss. Ending it reluctantly, he explained, "I want to do this again ..."

Another kiss.

"... soon ..."

A third.

"... now ... "

Walter took control of the kissing then, as he felt Alex's hand begin undoing the buttons of his shirt. Incredibly, in that moment, despite the heat and passion that had flared between them, the basic truth of his existence suddenly became clear to him - this was how his life was meant to be.

It felt good to be finally home.

finis
 

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