A/N: A companion piece/follow-up to An Ever-Fixéd Mark, only from Philippe's perspective.

Title, again, from Sonnet CXVI (116)

For all of the terrible nature of it, for all that it entails, there is a part of him that is selfishly grateful there is a war on.

He does not think he could bear it if Raoul were to see him now. It is bad enough that Sorelli, his dear sweet Sorelli, must see him like this, but if his brother were to come and visit—

He did not know, at the outset of the war, about his illness, when he arranged for Raoul to leave the hallowed halls of Beaumont for Clongowes. It was a practicality, to keep Raoul away from somewhere liable to be bombed, with the added advantage that should the war drag on he would also be away from the temptation to join up. The difficulty of crossing the Irish Sea, now, for anything other than essential business or the pursuit of work, is simply an added advantage, and one that brings him a good deal of relief.

If the surgery should not go as planned, he wants Raoul only to remember him with his health.

He would wish the same thing for Sorelli, too, but he could not bear to have to do without her.

He did not want her to follow him, could never have wanted that, for her to come to a place of such danger, under such constant threat, but no matter how he tried, he could not bring himself to tell her so. And though she would have continued to write him, her visits, even if only every few weeks, even if only short, are so much more than mere letters can be.

Even now they write each other daily. As long as he has been here, more of his paper has gone to writing her than writing his novel.

He could not bear it if he did not have her daily letters, have the promise of her visits and kisses, always so gentle, so careful since he's been ill, as if she is afraid of hurting him, never mind the problem is his lungs, and not his lips.

(Her kisses leave him breathless, more breathless than they once did, and that is the problem of his lungs.)

There are a great many people who would say he should have broken off contact with her, would tell him he is a fool and call him things a great deal worse for putting her at risk, but it was her choice to follow him, and if she feared the risk of contact with him then she could have broken things off, and besides, those people have surely never felt as he does, would never begin to understand the agony of not being able to see her every day, the unbearable thought of her deciding to forget her love for him.

(He has kept a record, of all the days she has visited him, for when the hollowness in his chest is more than he can bear.)

His companion in this room, of the last twelve months, is perhaps the only one who would understand, because he too has a girl who has flouted the unwritten rule of breaking off contact with someone known to be tubercular, and though she is stuck in Dublin the way Raoul is stuck in Clongowes (admittedly through circumstance more than machinations) there is something affirming in knowing he is not the only one in his situation.

Between them, they have read their way through the entire library twice, and if it were not for the books Sorelli brings, and the little radio, and the letters, they might each go quite mad.

He never realized how much he has come to rely on not being alone in this room until these last few days, every tick of the clock drawing out the time until his operation, drawing out the time until Sorelli's visit.

(She would have come sooner, would have been at his side in an instant and refused to leave upon hearing the news of what he is to endure, but it is difficult for her to get leave from the hospital, and he did not want to face her with how he has changed in the last few weeks until he had to, did not want to put that on her.)

He was reading through the collected works of Shakespeare (for the third time) when they brought Browne for surgery, and has not been able to bring himself to touch the volumes since. Macbeth comes back to him, again and again, life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, and it does not feel so very far from twenty years ago, when he was but Raoul's age and Raoul's future existence yet unknown, and he played Macbeth in the school play, who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is reduced to nothing.

It is not Macbeth, but Sonnet CXVI on his mind, when Sorelli comes to visit. Eighteen hours, still, until his operation.

Eighteen hours, and once those eighteen hours have passed, and the two or three that follow them, will he be better, or worse?

Or will he continue to be?

(The priest told Browne, the night before his, about another young Dublin doctor who haemorrhaged to death on the table. And whether the case of that young doctor is true or not (and Philippe rather suspects it to be an embellishment designed to strike fear) the very possibility of it, in itself, is more than he can bear to dwell on.)

(If he is to die on the table, will he feel it, creeping in slow and cold? Will he hear the frantic rush of the surgeons through the cotton wool in his ears? Will his last conscious thought be of Sorelli? Would it be better, for them to risk the ether, and put him fully under?)

He resolves not to breathe a word of it, not to anyone, but especially not to her.

It is eleven years since his father died, eleven years since Raoul became his responsibility and his alone, but he was twenty-four and his first act, after the funeral, was to organize his affairs. Should the worst happen, and Raoul be left alone in the world, he would not have his future left to the whims of those who would not understand. And at least, if the worst should happen now, Raoul is old enough to have a chance of making something of himself. But he will not have his brother join the army to do it.

He has it all laid out, every one of his wishes, and that one most critical of all.

And when he revised his will, two and a half years ago, upon discovering his illness to be a good deal worse than merely a persistent cold gone into his chest, he included a substantial bequest for Sorelli.

So help him, but he will not have her left bereft.

(There is a letter, too, outlining as many of his feelings as he could bear to put into a letter, every one of them unspoken, though he is certain she understands, certain she feels the same. More than certain, he feels it deep in his bones, in his blood, every time her eyes meet his, and it is in her touch when she brushes back his hair, even damp with sweat, when she kisses his cheek and his forehead and his mouth and lays her head on his shoulder, as if they might be like that always. Just because they have never used the words, what it is is not any less real.)

He went to see Browne this morning, because he had to know, for his own sake. And the sight of that boy, who reminds him of Raoul without being anything like Raoul at all, lying heavy on a pile of pillows, face as pale as the sheets pulled up to his chin, so young without his spectacles, without his hair slicked back, tore at something deep inside Philippe, something that whispered of poor boy but also of that might be you and it was all he could do to manage a weak smile, when the boy opened his eyes, and asked him, in the faintest voice that he had to strain to hear, to write to his girl in Dublin for him wouldn't want her to think… and Philippe hushed him, to save his strength, but also because he couldn't bear to hear that voice so diminished, and whispered a simple of course. If it were the other way around, if he were the one…and Sorelli left to wonder and worry…he would want the same.

(He has written the girl, has the letter sent, a letter of not knowing what to say and how much to leave out and what to spare her having to think of, and he thinks he has discharged his duty in the gentlest way he can, preparing her, just in case, but giving her room to hope.)

His dear Sorelli comes to him, eighteen hours before his surgery, and he squeezes her hands, and thinks of love, altering not with brief hours and weeks, and years, altered not with his illness, only grown. But the words all catch in his chest, somewhere in the region of the two ribs that are to be cut out, and when her lips brush his forehead, and her eyes drift to the empty bed, he tells her, instead, of Browne.

He does not want her to worry, would never want her to worry for him, but he needs her to understand, and it is the only way he can admit without admitting, what it is he fears deep in his heart.

Even now he could send her away, could ask her not to see him again, ask her not to write. And maybe, if it were to end badly, the pain of his having broken things off would spare her having to grieve him, would turn the agony of losing him to death into an anger to propel her.

Would that be better, or worse?

(Worse. A most dreadful act of cruelty. He has been many things, but he has never been cruel.)

He squeezes her hands gently, and pushes the thought from his mind.

Unbidden, he remembers the night he met her. Remembers seeing her dancing across the stage, her dark hair unbound, curls bouncing on her shoulders, around her face, to drive the breath from his chest. For the life of him he cannot remember the play, cannot remember the other players, but he remembers the moon overhead, swollen full, remembers the reflection of it rippling on the Liffey, and there was a Trinity Boat Club dance on too, a few doors down, that he was just as entitled to go to, but he found himself at the afterparty, found himself looking into her sloe-dark eyes, those dark curls framing her face, and the very sight of her lips made his heart stutter as if he were a schoolboy and not a grown man of almost thirty, compelled him to take her hand, compelled him to ask her to dance. And whatever force compelled her to squeeze his fingers lightly, for a slight smile to grace those lips, and her eyelids to flutter as she said yes, he has thanked that force every day of his life since.

His heart stutters, even now, at the sight of her lips, at the gentleness of her thumb, wiping a stray tear from his eye. But he cannot kiss her, not yet, not with the frown creasing her brow, the question in her eyes. She is resolving herself to something, it is written in her features, those features that he has kissed and caressed and would be content to spend the rest of his life kissing and caressing, even if that life is to end tomorrow, even if that life is not to end for another sixty years.

He might ask her, what it is that's on her mind, that has her looking so troubled, it is on the tip of his tongue to do so, when her eyes meet his, and they are brimming with tears.

His fingers tremble for to wipe them away, and as if she senses it, she kisses his fingertips, and he swallows hard against the lump in his throat.

Her voice is barely a whisper as she breathes, "I lov—" but he can't stand to hear it, not now, not like this, not when they have never spoken it to each other before in the entirety of the six years they have shared and if she wants to tell him now then she's frightened too, frightened she might never get another chance, but she has to get another chance, has to get a hundred, a thousand!, more chances, he won't stand for it being any other way, so help him. He's going to live, he has to live.

He presses his finger to her lips, those soft gorgeous lips, and shakes his head. "It's not goodbye." A whisper is all he can manage, his throat too tight. "I won't let it be goodbye." It might be out of his hands but so help him if he has any say in the matter, any choice in the matter, he'll order his heart to keep beating, order his lungs to continue drawing breath, and damn it all. He's not going to let himself die on her, not like this.

She shakes her head and fresh tears prickle in the backs of his eyes. "But what if—"

"No buts." Gently he brushes one shining tear from her cheek. "There'll be time afterwards, all of the time in the world, I promise." He needs there to be, needs her to believe there will be because he can't do this right now, can't say goodbye to her as if this will be the last time, as if he will never have a chance to tell her these things himself and his letter must suffice. A letter could never suffice, not for this, would lose so much, the aching depth of feeling, and he needs to see her face, the first time he says it, needs to see the flickering of her mouth and the soft quirk of her lips and hear it answered back in her voice but he cannot do this, not now. "You don't need to say it." And she doesn't, because he's always known.

"I just want you to know." And her voice is low, lower even than his, as if what she is speaking of is the most sacred of secrets (and it is, it is).

"How could I not?" Her fingers are soft in his and now he wonders if he has made it plain enough to her, how he feels. Does she know? Has he left room that she has misunderstood? He doesn't think he has. He thinks she knows, he's certain she knows. "And I hope you know—" know that I feel the same, know that you are the only woman who has ever made me feel this way, know that I want to hold you in my arms forever until your hair has turned grey and your face creased with unimaginable years…

"I do." And something in how she says it, some quality of her voice, carries all of the sacredness of a wedding.

He nods, and a tear trickles free. "Will you come see me afterwards?" He'll tell her then, a soon as he has the breath, tell her then and it won't matter because he will already have survived but he could not do without seeing her, and he will not be able to write with the pain in his chest, the pulling of his arm on the torn muscles and shattered bones.

"Just as soon as I'm allowed."

Her answer is all the affirmation he needs, and some unknown knot loosens inside of him.

"I'll look forward to it." Look forward to it all night, look forward to it in my dreams, try not to think of it during the surgery or it will be tainted...

She nods, as if she understands, and a smile curves her lips, as she leans in.

Her mouth is just as sweet on his, just as soft, as it has ever been.

(Tonight he will dream of her, and of holding her in his arms until the end of time, as the world burns around them. And during the surgery, cotton wool in his ears to muffle the world, to muffle the crunching of his ribs, he will try not to think of what the surgeons are doing, try not to think of Sorelli, or of Raoul, or even of Browne, try not to think of very much at all to the point where they are all he can think of and she will come to him unbidden, the memory of her gentle, breathing Sonnet CXVI in his ear let me not to the marriage of true minds…, and there will be a great gush of blood in his chest, and when he gasps around the sudden breathlessness she will be the last he sees behind his eyes before the waves pull him under.)

(Later still, he will wake, groggy and weak, the heavy pressure in his chest all he can feel, will learn that he stopped breathing for a full minute and a half, that he needed several transfusions, his arm punctured with needles pushing drugs, (and even now all is not certain, but they will not tell him that), and he will close his eyes, unable to take it in, for the trouble of breathing, for thinking of Sorelli. And the next time he wakes, or perhaps the time after that, he will feel her hands on his even before he opens his eyes, feel her cheek against his forehead, and she will be half lost in the mist, her face washed out and still so beautiful, and he will breathe the only words he can, the ones he should have asked her years ago but was too afraid to. Marry me? And she will nod, and smile a watery smile, and whisper, Yes.)

A/N: Short on the historical points this time - though for detail on the actual medicine see the A/N at the end of An Ever-Fixéd Mark. There is one point though - Beaumont was a Jesuit school near Windsor where Catholic gentlemen would send their sons, sort of a Catholic version of Eton. There were also scholarships available for boys who attended certain schools but whose families could not afford Beaumont. Clongowes is short for Clongowes Wood, the Irish version of Beaumont, in Co. Kildare.