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Le Bret was an early riser long before Arras, but he found himself sleeping less and less amidst the lingering mist and musket smoke. For one thing, as the space between the lines shrank, they were once again reduced to tents on the open field, and he preferred not to be caught unawares. For another thing, he could barely close his eyes for a moment without immediately envisioning the worst. Spanish cannonfire descending on them like thunderbolts and leaving only ash behind. The grass beneath their feet stained red as clay. Each cadet in turn falling until only he was left, standing in the ruined shells of their heads and limbs. His friends impaled on bayonets, hanging by the threads of their guts. It was more than a man could take. And such dreams distracted more than they motivated, as he often reminded Cyrano. So he regularly sought to escape or at least relieve them.
Cyrano was always gone by the time he rose. Off to deliver those thrice-damned letters he seemed to prize above his own life. By the time he returned, Le Bret would catch him holding an arm or shoulder a bit differently or favoring one leg as he walked, but otherwise seemingly buoyant as ever. As if he didn’t notice—or was trying not to notice—the battle in progress around them. Naturally, Le Bret would always scold him for his recklessness, and Cyrano would wave it off with his customary flippant cheer. But every morning found a new pall hanging over this little ritual. Every morning, Cyrano looked more and more like a figure from Le Bret’s nightmares. Lean, pale, and hungry, no mirth in his eyes, his smile only a brief flash of teeth. An increasingly colorless imitation of himself. Le Bret knew he must look much the same, but that was to be expected; he was an old warhorse, soon to be pastured. Cyrano was a few years out from the young colt Le Bret remembered, but there was still life and vigor in him… seeing this place steal it from him felt unnatural.
The last part of their morning ritual always saw Cyrano sitting near Christian as he slept. The lad looked worse and worse each day, his once-rosy cheeks hollow and pallid, his golden hair limp on his brow. More than a few times, Le Bret would catch Cyrano readjusting the thin blanket over his chest or brushing away a lock of hair before drawing his hand back sharply, as though afraid his touch would sting. There was something more than worry in his expression, something that chipped painfully at Le Bret’s heart, but he never dared ask. Once Christian woke, Cyrano never said a word, never betrayed even the slightest hint of nerves. Letting them both pretend all was well.
So Le Bret averted his eyes. Letting himself in turn pretend that his best friend wasn’t having a crisis of the soul nearby, that Christian would live another day, that this new wan sunrise might not be their last.
The night before the last Spanish attack, he dreamed of both Cyrano and Christian laying face-down in the mud, cold and bloodless, and of a funeral with only Roxanne in attendance, a black veil obscuring her face.