Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Shell-shock

France, 1917

A shudder rippled through Ludovic as he slept, and Edmond Dantès felt his heart clench in response. The nightmares came to his friend every night now – or rather, every night that Ludovic actually slept, something that happened less and less.

His condition was getting worse.

Another shudder – Ludovic's whole body trying to curl into itself as if escaping something, and Edmond bent over his friend.

"Ludovic," he whispered. "It's alright, it's a dream."

The first time he'd woken Ludovic in a nightmare, Ludovic had lashed out, disoriented, and broken Edmond's nose. Edmond was a lot more careful these days, but he still couldn't bear to watch Ludovic suffering, trapped in the growing nightmare of his own head.

Over the months they'd spent in the trenches together, Ludovic had become more important to him than anyone. They both struggled with the ghosts of their pasts, they'd both done things that made them feel like monsters, things that they were still coming to terms with. They could be completely honest with each other, about everything. They understood each other.

A shell impacted somewhere, far enough away that it was no threat to them, but the sound of it jerked Ludovic awake. Eyes wild, he fumbled for his rifle, propped against the trench wall beside him, and Edmond caught his hands.

"It didn't hit us, we're alright," he insisted.

But Ludovic didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were raw with panic, his head jerkily moving from side to side as if he was looking for something.

"The top," he muttered. "We're going over . . . are we going over . . ."

"No," said Edmond firmly, clasping Ludovic's face in both hands to keep him still. "We're not going anywhere. Not now."

But even as the words left his mouth, a sick feeling bloomed in his stomach. This war had raged for years, and there was no knowing how much longer it would continue. Sooner or later, they would go over the top again.

Ludovic's eyes finally focused, staring back at Edmond. He clutched Edmond's wrists.

"You're alright," said Edmond again.

Ludovic gave a shaky nod.

He started to stand up, and Edmond finally let him go.

"I thought . . . it was like we were . . ." Ludovic struggled to find the words. His eyes seemed to glaze again as he looked around the trench, and then he just . . . collapsed.

Edmond caught him as he fell.

For an awful moment he thought Ludovic had been shot, even though there was no noise, because the collapse had been so sudden, and spots of red had splashed onto Edmond's sleeve as he caught the other man. Then he realised that those spots of red were tears. Ludovic hadn't been physically injured, but he was violently shaking in Edmond's arms.

Edmond pulled him back into the shelter of the dugout where Ludovic had just been sleeping, and gently lowered him to the ground.

"The mud," Ludovic whispered, clinging to Edmond. "All the mud and the blood . . . I can taste it . . ."

Edmond understood what was going through Ludovic's head.

Just weeks had passed since the end of the worst battle the war had seen so far – the battle of the Somme. Nightmares of those hellish four months plagued Edmond too.

The joint operation between British and French forces had been intended to achieve a decisive victory over the Germans, and Edmond had felt hopeful about it when the offensive finally began, because maybe this would be the start of the end of the war.