Chapter Text
How you got here is beyond your memory - struck with an unusual type of short term amnesia, the slurry of colours that is your vision finally pieces itself together to be a run-down building, seemingly not yet infiltrated by the swarm of undead you'd just been attacked by. Though there's no-one in your line of sight, a slight shuffling from the right of yourself, followed by what seems to be human speech and not dreadful groaning, alerts you of another human presence.
You attempt to move, though the pain that shoots through your side, gradually creeping to your chest, forces out you to keep limply still. Only able to weakly wince to yourself, wondering how you'd gotten yourself so unpleasantly injured. Only then the other presence in the room makes itself known visually - a average height, perhaps taller man, with dark hair, complimented with a shako you can't recognise. The uniform is vaguely French, just enough for one to think they'd just encountered a unique style, but the shako adorned with a silver eagle leaves you equally puzzled. That, and the fact that his grumbling to himself was certainly not the French you'd overheard from your comrades. He seems just as confused at your own existence, unable to decipher which nation you came from either.
You, dreadfully, stare at each other. Dark, tired eyes boring into your own, as if seeking the truth to where you came from in them. Neither of you speak for some time, however awkward it is, until he dangles the roll of bandages in front of you.
"Angielski? Francuski?"
You stare at him, confused.
"Anglais?"
You nod and watch his face drop. Was that not the answer he wanted? He pulls at the bandages regardless, stumbling over various phrases of semi-broken English before he can get a few singular words out.
"This may... eh... hurt bad."
It's very little warning before he lifts up your left leg, pain once again shooting through your side - you suppress the wince all you can, but the tender, broken flesh is no joke. From where your head is positioned, you can just make out that you'd sustained an injury spanning some way up your left leg, starting at your ankle. His hands are gently applying some sort of ointment on the bleeding wound, shaking slightly. It burns, but it's noticeably more bearable than the stabbing, dull pain in your torso.
"I am no good. Don't be loud please."
You nod at him, praise him on his surprisingly semi-decent English. He doesn't seem to respond however, pushing down his shako so his now flushed face is a little more obscured.
When the fabric of the bandages touches the leg wound, some of the burning subsides, it doesn't mean you can move your leg any more comfortably, though. He gives little warning for when he moves your left arm to access the wound on your torso, only grunting dismissively when you whimper and grit your teeth - for all it was worth, it seemed to be that he was doing this against his own will. But try as you might, you couldn't find how. He was presumably the one who had moved you into a safe(r) place, taken the time to wait till you awakened, and was now patching you up.
Some men were just colder than others, you concluded.
He starts work on the unwelcome sight that is the wound on your torso, visibly quite unsettled by it. Bloodied, swollen, still fresh, enough for some men to begin to feel ill at the sight. Despite initial hesitation, the soldier seems to be just as attentive as he was for the other wound, gently dabbing at it with a clean-ish rag before awkwardly positioning your limbs so you wouldn't get in the way of the soon-to-be-applied bandages. Choosing not to comment on when your eyes meet long enough for both of you to grow uncomfortable.
"This ah... not so great. I think you need..."
He gestures loosely to his coat, pulling it off slightly. It takes a moment for you to realise at what he's trying to tell you.
You needed to take some clothes off so he can apply the bandages correctly.
You nod pensively, even if a random stranger seeing you less...clothed... was something you typically saw as unwelcome. Even a little repulsive. Hesitance almost overtaking him, he pulls off the main component of your uniform, working his way through the layers, despite his reluctance. He chooses to keep your decency and only slightly hike up the last fabric layer, enough for the bandages to be applied with little problem. It doesn't make it any less embarrassing, but you appreciate the sentiment regardless as he pulls the bandages tightly around your torso. You hate to admit it, but there wasn't many places to look besides him, even if you were trying not to stare too much. With the better look at him, you were positive that he was possibly on the younger side, despite the darkness beneath his eyes and surprisingly shaven stubble, as he'd little other blemishes on his face. Possibly from outside France, nor did he look very British, he didn't seem to speak the language of the Prussians, but his speech held noticeable similarities to the Russians...
Surprisingly gentle for a man who was angrily mumbling to himself in a foreign language.
When he prods at the gash too harshly, you wince, cursing quietly to yourself - to which he is almost remorseful.
"Przepraszam." (sorry)
Through tone alone, you assume it's something of an apology, as he accelerates his work without further irritating the injury, tying up the bandages in a matter of minutes. You cast a glance at the work done, scrutinising it slightly, as he begins to piece the uniform back together onto yoursef, but it's not he worst possible outcome for someone who'd claimed to be 'no good'.
Could be better, you conclude, as he pulls away from you completely, standing fully from his kneeling position. The slight, possibly proud, smile on his face makes you feel even a little less bleak.
"Can you get up?"
You doubt you can stand, but you're also painstakingly aware that you can't remain sitting for long. It's only a matter of time before you're tracked down by those with a thirst for human flesh. Against your body's better judgement, you pull yourself up using a nearby table. It's as painful as you'd imagined it to be, but the soldier comes to your aid so your legs don't crumple beneath you. It's almost degrading how much he needs to prop you up before you may stand properly without a physical help.
You take some steps forward. Your leg radiates a dull ache which follows you any movement you make - an ache with you quickly learn to ignore through sheer will. Your torso fares no better.
"Help?"
You shake your head, though you're lying to his face, which continues to harden, as if he'd infact caught you in that lie.
"I will help fight."
You try shake your head frantically. He'd done enough, you're sure! But he's strangely insistent that he comes back out with you to ensure you're not further injured.
"Take gun."
He shoves your own weapon into your hands, albeit a little too harshly for your liking. You're lucky your arms only got scrapes. Grabbing his own, he stations himself at the door, staring intently as you compose yourself, stumbling over to him.
"Good?"
You nod. He raises an eyebrow, but sends you a strained, tired smile despite his doubt.
Maybe you're leaving alive afterall.