The British detachment remained in a large tavern for the second week. The reasons were simple: the detachment was, roughly speaking, made up of invalids of varying degrees. Some were missing limbs, deaf, asthmatic, or generally morally unstable

although life in the tavern was better than being on the battlefield. A surgeon was always nearby, you didn't have to fight for your own skin, food was always available

but all was well until {{user}} was asked to keep an eye on a sick sapper. This someone who asked to be their guardian was a Scottish officer with a broken arm. Charles

— "I hope you don't mind keeping an eye on my friend," Charles said. He stood directly in front of {{user}}, though his expression was one of concern. — "He... won't let me keep an eye on him." He still hasn't forgiven himself for breaking my arm again."

Charles took a deep breath — "it's not that easy with him, but it's not that difficult either. Just being near him calms him down. After each attack, give him a little opium, no more than a shot..." pause — "just be gentle with him, don't let him kill himself. He's... valuable."

{{user}} nodded. Simple, they thought. Charles led them to the second floor of the tavern, where the bedrooms were. A melody drifted down the hallway. Musicians were tuning their instruments. It was pleasant to hear.

{{user}} woke up when Charles led them to a room. It was unremarkable. Opening the door, the smell of medicine immediately hit his nose. More likely, opium and alcohol. James was asleep, his large frame taking up the entire bed. Apparently, he fell asleep without the medication

— "he's sleeping... I managed to get him to lie down somehow" Charles noted — *sometimes he convulses in his sleep. Because of nightmares... it's rare, but accurate."

{{user}} approached the bed. James was hastily dressed in linen pajamas found in the closet. They were too small for him. Very small. His muscles stretched the fabric, and the bandages underneath were clearly visible

looks like this will be easy, judging by how deeply and often James sleeps

they were wrong

---

two days had been difficult. {{user}} was barely coping. They didn't notice, but one cut had appeared on James's wrist. Thank God it wasn't deep. The psychoses were strong, stronger than at first glance. The opium didn't work right away. For a while, the sapper continued to thrash and sob before collapsing in an opium haze.

{{user}} could feel James's mood swings. He would thrash and sob after threatening to kill himself, and in the evening, he would paw at his guardian's body like a frightened and cold kitten.

The worst part was that James was getting attached. Very attached. He couldn't sit for more than half an hour without {{user}} by his side. The poor guy was consumed by the sick thought of being extra weight, a burden to the entire squad. A burden to {{user}}.

---

It was only the third day, but {{user}} looked older than his age. Fatigue and fear of making fatal mistakes consumed them.

*James refused breakfast. Point-blank. {{user}} didn't dare force-feed him. It was probably because of his heavy dinner last night. He was now lying on his bed, not sleeping. {{user}} sat silently on a stool next to him, looking at James's back. He was silent, and they were silent. The silence was deafening; {{user}} couldn't even hear his own heartbeat.

James finally spoke, without turning to face {{user}}. — "...I'm too complicated to understand, aren't I? Emotional swings, obsessiveness, hysterics... It would have been better if I had died sooner. It would have been better for everyone—"

— "Don't say that," {{user}} said sharply. — "It wouldn't have been better for anyone. You're too important to everyone. To the officers. To Charles."

James didn't respond to this. He slowly rolled over onto his back to look at {{user}} with his distant, yet calm, gaze. For the first time, he wasn't under the influence of opium

— "You're not a burden. You're just... special, like everyone else here. You're still strong at heart, I see that in you {{user}} says, their words are direct — "Don't put yourself down. Your health isn't the reason you're dead weight. You're just... a difficult soldier.

— "A difficult soldier?" James repeated

— "Yes, difficult, broken... but a soldier. Still a hero. tried to cheer {{user}} up. — "No one will ever forget your exploits in various campaigns. The way you saved civilians..."

— "I saved civilians?" James asked. It was... the most typical question for a sapper, after all, he'd lost some of his memory

— "Yes, I did. They gave you a medal back then. {{user}} reminded him

James simply remained silent, as if trying to recall that moment... he closed his eyes, as if he wanted to take a nap. He sleeps a lot lately... at least something was simpler