Page 15

"Shhh." The word was barely more than breath. Tomasz continued to apply the cloth. He moved it along Alistair's forehead, then to his temples and the back of his neck. He aimed for spots where the surface vessels were close to the skin, to be cooled by the contact. "You are safe. Je suis ici, je suis ici."

The words were French, and they were simple. I am here. I am here. Tomasz repeated them like a litany, his voice rough against Alistair’s ear. He wanted to break through Alistair's delirium, to reach the part of his mind that could still hear and understand.

"Je suis ici, je suis ici."

Alistair's eyes rolled back as his body convulsed once more. It was a full-body reaction to the fever, rising from a deep, instinctual part of his nervous system, somewhere beyond his control. Tomasz held him, his bulky frame a stabilizing force, absorbing and calming the violent tremors wracking the officer's body.

This time Tomasz began to hum. The sound was low, rough, something from deep in his chest. It was not a melody in any conventional sense. It was almost atonal, more rhythm than pitch, more presence than form. It had no melody Alistair could follow, but the vibration in Tomasz's chest was steady, unchanging, as if exhaustion and war did not exist. It was a lullaby, a song from Poland, from childhood, from some deep well of personal history that Tomasz carried within him.

Alistair's body began to calm. Not completely. The fever continued to rage through him, continued to make his muscles jerk, his skin burn, and his consciousness fragment. But the humming and caring embrace created a space. It could hold the panic, making the delirium's terror easier to manage. His thrashing ceased. His eyes were open but slowly focused on the sound. He sensed the vibration in Tomasz's chest. Another human was there, holding him and offering comfort.

Tomasz reached for the bucket again. He soaked the cloth and pressed it to Alistair's forehead. The officer's eyes flew open, but instead of recoiling, this time he accepted it. The cloth came again. Cool water against his burning skin. Tomasz continued to bathe his face, his neck, his chest. After each application of the cloth, the hum continued with a steady, rhythmic quality, devoid of any pretense.

Hours passed, but Alistair lost track of how many. In his fevered state, time meant nothing. All he knew was the burning and cold, Tomasz's hands on his skin, and the steady hum that did not wane or vary. But slowly, imperceptibly, the fever started to subside.

***

MORNING LIGHT WAS NOT kind. It was harsh, revealing, unforgiving in the way daylight always was when one had been conscious all night. The cobwebs in the corner of the shack became distinct. Each strand was visible. Each intersection of the web showed where dust accumulated, where small insects had been caught and abandoned.

Alistair's eyes, opening slowly to this invasion of illumination, took a moment to adjust, to understand what they were seeing. He was not on the table where Tomasz had laid him. He was elevated. He was cradled. His head lay on something massive, solid, and warm, not wood, but flesh.

Alistair curled up in Tomasz's lap, the larger man's back against the wall, his legs extended before him. A blanket—Alistair could not fathom where from—tucked around the officer's small frame. More than a blanket, Tomasz's arms.

The larger man was asleep. His head rested against the stone wall, tilted back. He breathed deeply and steadily, suggesting he had only recently surrendered to unconsciousness. Even in sleep, his arms stayed wrapped around Alistair, protective and vigilant. Even his subconscious refused to let its guard down.

Alistair studied his face in the brutal daylight. His beard was a bit longer than it had been when he had first seen him in the trench. The scratches across Tomasz's left cheek were fresh. They were not there yesterday. Where had those come from? The officer could not recall. His eyes, closed now, were shadowed, the skin beneath them dark with the telltale staining that came from days without sleep. His jawline was tighter and more defined. It seemed like exhaustion stripped away any excess, revealing only the essential structure beneath.

Tomasz surfaced from sleep gradually, as though climbing through layers of exhaustion. His dark eyes opened slowly, found Alistair immediately, and assessed the officer’s condition in a single glance. Then he moved heedfully, slowly. He shifted Alistair’s body slightly and reached for the canteen.

The water was cooler than it had been during the night. Tomasz had found more, or at some point, he must have refilled it from the pump. He lifted the canteen to Alistair's lips and the water slid down his throat like medicine.

Alistair's hands trembled as he accepted the canteen. His entire body was weak. Fever consumed more than his consciousness. It consumed his resources, reducing him to a bare state of existence. As he sipped the cool water, it settled in his stomach. His body began to restore itself. Soon, he noticed a new clarity. His mind, freed from the delirium, was able to process thought in a linear fashion. It was able to construct language, able to form intention.

"Combien de temps?" His voice emerged as barely more than a whisper. How long had he slept? The words required effort that seemed disproportionate to their length.

"Toute la nuit," Tomasz responded. All night. His voice was rough from disuse, from the hours of humming, from the night spent speaking to someone who did not have the capacity to understand him. "Dors..."

Alistair knew he was lying. The truth was that he had hardly slept at all. The realization came with a specificity that was almost overwhelming. While Alistair burned with fever, thrashing and screaming in delirium, Tomasz stayed awake. He held him. He applied cool water to his burning skin. He hummed his rough, wordless song. He used his body as a vessel and an anchor. It was the only tool that prevented the officer from dissolving completely into the chaos of his own illness. Alistair's eyes burned. He looked away, toward the cobwebs in the corner, and breathed until his chest loosened. Then, he considered the dark stains beneath Tomasz's eyes, the fresh cuts on his cheek, and, for a while, said nothing.

“Quel est ton nom?” The question broke the silence with more force than the officer's weak voice could properly support. What is your name?

Tomasz paused before responding, as if determining whether the question was sincere, whether the officer could handle the answer, whether their exchange would create an obligation beyond their current arrangement.

"Tomasz," he said finally.

Alistair mouthed the word: Tomasz. Not Thomas, Tom-ash. Not sergeant, not soldier, not the man who carried him. Tomasz. This mythic giant had a name. He had a name that carried history and origin; it alluded to a person who existed before the war and who would continue to exist after it.

"Et toi?" Tomasz asked.

The question was remarkable in its simplicity, and in its reversal. That Tomasz had been carrying him, holding him, tending to him, without ever having asked what he should call the officer. He accepted the role, did the work, and continued. He did not even need the word to make the relationship official.

"Alistair," the officer answered. "My name is Alistair."

Neither man repeated the other's name aloud. They simply stayed where they were. Alistair and Tomasz. Alistair cradled in Tomasz's lap. Tomasz's thumb moved once, slowly, across Alistair's shoulder. The bucket of cool water sat on the floor nearby. Above them, a bird made a sound in the eaves, then went quiet. They stayed where they were.

Outside, the war continued. Somewhere in the distance, engines. The rumble of artillery, far enough away to feel almost theoretical. The village remained quiet, dead, committed to its destruction. But inside the shed, the silence had changed.

Chapter 7 - The Sanctuary