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Alistair’s mind adjusted to reality, and he sighed with relief. He cautiously extended his hand. A rosary fell gently into his palm. The string was aged and frayed. The beads felt smooth from years of being handled in times of fear, faith, or both. The small, hand-carved cross at the end was still intact. Without conscious deliberation, Alistair slipped it into his pocket.

Tomasz collected some scarves and other strips of cloth torn from several uniforms. He held up a scarf, examining it, then tore it carefully in half. The action was deliberate, the tearing precise, creating two usable lengths from one piece. He knelt beside Alistair. His large body folded down effortlessly.

"Les Jambes," he said. The words were simple, functional. They were also not a question. Tomasz was making a statement of intention. He was going to examine the wounds. He was going to attempt to improve the bandages. Alistair knew refusal was not an option.

The removal of the old bandage was careful but efficient. Tomasz's hands traveled along Alistair's left thigh. He carefully unwrapped the cloth that he put on yesterday morning in the ruined camp. As the cloth came off, Tomasz assessed the state of the wound beneath. What he saw was not encouraging.

The wound started to fester, its edges turning pink and swollen with a kind of inflammatory heat, a clear sign that infection had set in. The skin around the injury looked off. Dark purple and sickly yellow showed through the drying blood and gunk. Even looking at it was a struggle for Alistair, as if his mind was trying to process something it was not meant to.

Tomasz simply looked. He did not express sympathy or dismay or any of the emotional responses that Alistair might have expected. Instead, he reached for the canteen, soaked a small patch of thick wool that was once the front pocket of an officer’s coat, and began to clean the wounds.

Tomasz washed away the dried blood and pus and the accumulated filth of travel, his massive hands moving delicately. Each touch of the cloth produced pain, sharp, electric pain that made Alistair's jaw clench, but Tomasz did not pause. He worked with precision. Alistair knew the pain was necessary. Cleaning was essential. Infection was the true enemy, one that had to be faced head-on.

Alistair found himself watching Tomasz's face as the man tended to him. The concentration was absolute. The scar along his jaw moved slightly as he worked, the muscle beneath contracting and releasing with the focus required by the task.

Tomasz had nothing to prove. He was just a man attending to a problem with all the resources he had available. He had no personal stake in Alistair’s survival, beyond compassion and respect for another human life. He had not yet even asked Alistair for his name. Somehow, that absolute pragmatism and commitment to principle were more moving than any amount of expressed sympathy would have been.

Tomasz rewrapped the thigh with care. He layered several bands to form a compression bandage. This stabilized the wound, offered support, and limited movement around the injury. Next, he tended to the right leg, repeating the same careful process: clean, assess, wrap, and secure. Each step was executed with the authority of someone who had done this before, who knew the importance of stabilizing the wound to buy time.

When he finished, both legs were securely wrapped in fresh cloth, tied with knots that would not come undone. Tomasz straightened, remaining close to Alistair but creating a small distance between them. Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them. The task was done; the officer's wounds had been tended to.

Tomasz collected the materials he gathered from the dead: the matches, tea tin, and various other objects. He tucked them away carefully, ensuring they would not hinder his movement and would be easy to reach. The bodies lay scattered in the field, indifferent to their stolen belongings. Alistair took the rosary beads, hiding them as a personal prayer. The fallen were still unaware of the human survival that went on at their expense.

Chapter 4 - The Barn

The barn seemed to rise from the earth just as dusk settled. Tomasz had been walking for hours. Alistair felt in every uneven bounce of the hip, every imperceptible slackening of pace, the moment when Tomasz’s dark eyes locked onto something ahead. The change in his posture was subtle, but Alistair, attuned to every nuance of his companion, recognized the shift from aimless trudging to purposeful approach.

The long wooden building had once worn bright red paint; now only flecks of it clung to the planks, faded to a dusky brown that blended with the ruined fields around it. The roof sagged in one corner, a jagged hole hinting at past damage and leaking rain. The door swung loose on its hinges, waiting. Tomasz set Alistair’s mass, braced himself, and pushed with his shoulder. The door groaned open, revealing a dim interior.

Inside, the air was still and smelled of hay, manure and the organic aroma of bovine breath and musk, a living reminder that this barn was still in use. A lone cow stood in a nearby stall, its dark eyes watching the newcomers with mild curiosity. Tomasz stepped inside, closing the door carefully so it would not creak too loudly. Alistair, supported in the sling, felt a wave of relief at the absence of wind and the presence of something warm and alive.

Tomasz drifted past the cow’s stall, leaving the animal undisturbed, and found an empty space at the far end, where old wooden beams framed an unused stall. The floor there was littered with straw, some of it fresh. Tomasz knelt and began gathering handfuls, building a makeshift bed against the cold boards. He undid the sling and lowered Alistair into the mound of straw, every muscle unclenching as the brittle stems gave way to a softer cradle.

The cow shifted and bellowed again, stamping a hoof but remaining calm. Its steady breathing was oddly comforting. Tomasz worked, piled more straw around Alistair’s body to serve as both cushion and insulation. Then he spotted a folded saddle blanket on a high shelf. He retrieved it, its wool still surprisingly supple, and wrapped it around Alistair’s broken legs with deliberate care. The blanket’s thickness pressed pleasantly against his skin, its warmth immediate.

"You're very good at this," Alistair heard himself say. His voice felt strange in the barn, thin and high compared to the cow’s rich baritone. The observation seemed the kind of thing that gratitude required, and yet Alistair immediately regretted having spoken. The barn held the words, reflected them back, and Tomasz did not respond. Unbothered, he continued creating the most comfortable space he was able to.

The sun was low in the sky, plunging the barn into shadow. The cow calmed down, quiet aside from its chewing and shuffling. Tomasz lingered by the stall entrance, listening for any sign of movement outside—the hoofbeat of a patrolling guard, the distant voice of a farmhand. When nothing came, he slipped back inside and crouched beside Alistair, every muscle still taut, ready.

They shared a brief glance: exhaustion in their eyes, but also the hope of a few hours’ rest. If they moved before dawn, they might slip away without ever waking the cow or alarming the barn’s owner.

The fire came next. Tomasz gathered broken wood from around the barn, pieces of fence, splinters from the damaged roof, scraps that would burn reasonably well without providing excessive smoke. He arranged them in a bare patch of floor, creating a fire pit that was simple but functional. When the flames caught, the warmth of it spread through the space with a kind of generosity. Light followed, pushing back the absolute darkness, allowing Alistair to see the full extent of the barn's interior, the rafters overhead, the way dust particles caught the firelight and seemed to become luminous.

Tomasz filled their tea tin with water from the canteen, positioned it near the fire to heat it, and sat waiting for the moment when steam would rise. The tin was small, intended for soldiers' rations, and the tea would be sparse, but it would be warm, and warmth at this point in the journey was a form of miracle. Alistair watched the larger man as he waited. Tomasz's face was calm, his massive shoulders relaxed for what might have been the first time since Alistair had known him. The exhaustion showed in fine lines around his eyes, in the set of his jaw, but it was exhaustion that could be managed, because it came with a purpose.

The tea that resulted was weak, barely colored, but it was tea. Tomasz poured it into a cup that he found somewhere in the barn's interior—a metal cup, dented but serviceable. He brought it to Alistair first, holding it while the officer drank, his enormous hand steady and protective around the small vessel. The warmth moved through Alistair's body like grace. His throat, raw from days of pain and minimal conversation, responded to the heat and the slight astringency of the leaves. For a moment, the pain in his legs became secondary. The focus became purely the sensation of warmth, of something on his tongue that was not mud or blood or some other kind of contamination.

Tomasz drank from the cup after, using the same edge Alistair drank from. The gesture was simple but profound. The barn held them as they sat in silence, as the fire gradually consumed the wood Tomasz fed it, as the light began to prepare for the final surrender to darkness.

When Tomasz stood and removed his coat, the action was practical. The garment was damp from sweat and the humidity that accrued from the wet environs. Drying it was a necessity if he was to remain warm through the night. But when he drew his undershirt over his head, the fire's flickering light received him fully. Alistair’s breath seized in his throat, a bodily response that he could not have suppressed if he tried.

The scars were extensive. Not just the obvious one across his left ribs that Alistair glimpsed before, but others. A long pale line running down his left side, from armpit to hip, the kind of wound that should have been fatal. Smaller marks scattered across his torso in a pattern that suggested burns. A darker mark on his shoulder blade where something penetrated deeply and healed over.

His musculature was extraordinary, every inch of it earned through physical labor, forged rather than cultivated. His chest was broad enough that Alistair could have hidden himself entirely in its shadow. As Tomasz hung the damp undershirt beside the fire, muscles shifted beneath his skin with an easy, unconscious power. This was a body shaped by years of lifting, carrying, and enduring, until strength itself seemed as ordinary to him as breathing.

Tomasz did not acknowledge being observed. He did not turn to face Alistair. He hung the garment where the heat from the fire would begin to evaporate the moisture, and then he settled near the flames, his massive frame radiating the kind of heat that would have been impossible for a normal man. But Tomasz was not a normal man. He was something larger, something more enduring, something built to thrive under adversity.

The darkness beyond the barn became absolute. Inside, the firelight created a small sphere of existence, a world that contained only the two of them, the flames, the warming tea, the slow accumulation of body heat between them. Alistair's exhaustion was beginning to overcome even the pain. His eyes were growing heavy, his focus drifting. When he spoke, his voice barely rose above the sound of the fire.