White Walls (Part II)

"I can't…" I hiccup, "I can't feel them, Annie…"

"The new nerves take some time to grow in." Anneliese shushes me while rubbing slow circles over my back. "Remember what the doctor told you?"

"I can't move them. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep waking you up every other night because I can't— my body won't—"

"I'm not getting much sleep myself anyways," Anneliese assures. "What are you paying me for if not to run myself ragged covering for you?"

"I'm sorry." I sniffle and bury my head in the knots of her shoulders. "I'm sorry that I put you all through so much… I'm sorry that I didn't own up to everything until it was too late…"

"Rue, the salts are slipping."

"I'm sorry for everything… I'm sorry that I let Lise die that night…!"

"Rue." Anneliese hovers her free hand over my shoulder, seemingly conflicted as to whether to pry me off of her, before letting out a long and weary sigh. "God… you are the worst. Can't believe I actually used to respect your ass."

"You're not helping."

"What am I supposed to say?" Anneliese snaps. "I'm not Miriam, with her tongue that talks in useless circles, or Bea, with her stupid, goofy, toothy smile. Bet you wish they were here in my place sometimes, huh? Either of them would've been so much better at coddling a prissy little Comtesse." She takes me by the cheek and puts the salts under my chin again, urging me to hold them in place myself.

"Why did you agree to live with me…?" I ask under my breath, taking the dish from her in my trembling palms. "It's not like the pay in Brandgraven's all that bad compared to here…"

"I grew up in Cleineberch." Anneliese furrows her brow. "Where else was I supposed to go after the army let me loose?"

"Living it up in Artigny with Bea…?" I mutter. "Or skipping towns like Miriam, or any place where your Ma and Uncle can't reach you?"

"I'm not with them right now, am I? I'm with you."

"But why?"

"Would you feel better if I just berated you like Celeste always did, Rue?" Anneliese stares at the wall of white frost overruning the window with a pensive frown. "You know nobody on that crew but her actually blames you for what happened that night. We're not blind to the sacrifices needed for an effective command."

"Why is it that only you stayed, then?" I grit my teeth. "Bea and Miriam can at least write to me, but I don't even know what became of them, following the first few weeks of their discharge."

"S'not like we have a veteran's club like the men, Rue. People lose touch when they stop seeing each other as often. That's normal even with friends."

I ball my fists over my lap and try to remember the feeling of their hands clutching mine, their voices, their grins whenever we would swap stories and jokes and embraces over rations in the lead-up to our deployments. Every fresh battle always somehow managed to make each one before it seem so small. "Do you ever wonder how they're doing, Annie?"

Anneliese closes her eyes and draws a long breath. "Always."

"Do you… think they'd talk to us again, if we found the time to write them?"

"Celeste? No." Anneliese chuckles. "Everyone else? It can't hurt to try, but we'd have to go looking for addresses first." She doesn't move her gaze from the window, fixated on a point beyond it that I can't see. There is a determined set to her jaw that I haven't seen in her since we soared the skies on roaring engines, and a benevolent curve to her lips that I have never known from her, ever. "I know a courier in town whose sister works for the Citizen Census. I'd have to make the trek over to Brandgraven and the Mayor's sure to accost me if he catches wind of that, but I'm sure we can track the old girls down if we were to just try hard enough. Would you, uh… like me to start tonight?"

"Tomorrow," I promise, after only a bit of apprehension. "We'll start tomorrow after you get your rest."

"Alright." Anneliese holds a finger beneath my nose and — satisfied that my breathing has stabilised — she puts away the salts and begins rubbing down my face with the warm towel. "I think I know where to start looking for Bea, at least. Saw her face in a broadsheet one time for performing in some cabarets up and down Grand-Chambie. That girl's always had a knack for endearing herself to all sorts of folks."

"Would've taken your place as sergeant," I mumble through the towel.

"If she weren't such a pussy, yeah, and knew how to shoot worth a damn, and didn't look like a girl fresh out of school at twenty-five." Anneliese tosses the towel over her shoulder and moves to tuck me back beneath my covers — until I grasp her hand to stop her.

"No covers," I whimper. "It's not cold enough to cause me any problems."

"You were suffocating not two minutes ago."

"Please, Annie? The Comtesse de Mondmaden commands—"

"I let you ride down the river last week."

"And I paid you back with that pudding cake last night."

"And I just saved you from choking to death in your sleep." Anneliese scowls. "We can buy a lighter one if that helps with the night terrors, but you're not sleeping without one on a winter this cold."

I slump my shoulders in pitiful protest, but she forces my legs down and wraps the covers around them — and I have to hold in the urge to curse her out. For once, I am almost thankful that my legs are empty of all feeling. That dream of my old bed is still too fresh in my mind.

Anneliese makes sure to dig through my drawers for some paper and a pen before she leaves the room and, with a lazy flourish, she shoves a fistful of them in my face. "Better start thinking on what you want to write," she says. "I reckon you only have the rest of the winter to make up your mind."

I hum my tired affirmation and slide a bible under the page, testing the pen by scrawling a few careless sentences from my favourite childhood picture book, a pained smile stretching my lips. "Works for me, Annie, thank you, and… try to get some sleep."

"And you try not to overdo it." She shuts the door behind her with a soft, yet deafening, click.

I am left alone with my phantoms again, my legs tangled up under quilted covers that twist around them like the skin of a starved stomach. The storm continues to blast my window with a flurry of white ice but, for the first time, I manage to push it to the back of mind, adjusting the shutters of my oil lantern and bringing the body closer to me as I point its warm orange beam at where my pen rests atop the page. When I breathe in, it is through unclogged lungs, and when I close my eyes, it is to the sight my old comrades' faces, the flush of their cheeks in the heat, the colour of their insults and the warmth of their mirth.

It doesn't take long at all for the first few passages to make their way onto the page.