He's left panting, almost sobbing, and he slides down the tree to sit on the ground with his head between his knees.

"My leg hurts."

Then he laughs at himself, just a bit hysterically, and reaches up to pull Anatole in for a hug.

…He…fully does not understand this.

…but he’ll try it for a minute.

No one is here to laugh this time.

Camillo wipes the come off Anatole's face with his thumb, and kisses a bit at the corner of his mouth.

He puts his arms cautiously around him, about halfway.

“I don’t understand you at all.”

This is actually very confusing in its own right. Camillo makes a noncommittal noise. 

“Want me to get you?”

“—ugh, no,” he says. It’s deeply unclear whether he’s disgusted by the idea or finding it painful to refuse. Possibly both.

"Your funeral."

Camillo stretches out his leg and pokes at it. Yep, that hurts more.

“—oh, is that where all that blood came from.”

"These things happen."

He stands and offers his hand.

Camillo pulls himself upright.

"Thanks. For, you know, everything."

It's so weird how this isn't a real guy.

“Don’t mention it.”

He leads him back towards town.

Camillo is so profoundly ready to find a place to sit down. Sitting down sounds really great actually.

As soon as they get back into town, they are met by a couple of warriors, who rib Camillo thoroughly for the alleged tripping incident.

Anatole vanishes somewhere in the course of the ribbing.

This is honestly a pretty great dream. He almost hates to wake up.

Camillo eventually extricates himself from the unjustified teasing and finds a comfy spot outside the sleeping tent where he can sit and watch the town go by and wait for it to get dark.

People walk by — warriors, civilians, children. Some boys a little too young for war herd a small flock of goats down the path. An old woman sits with him and shares some soup and says what are probably some insensitive but well-meant things about how she would never have expected someone of his sort to be so sweet. A couple of little girls play in front of him, occasionally asking him to referee their game, and leave him with  a little white winter flower.

The sun starts to set early, and the street starts to clear.

It's enormously peaceful. He thinks Valentine would like it here, in an odd way.

When it starts to get dark, he stretches out in his comfy spot, pillows his head on his arms. He doesn't think it'll stand out too badly to be passed out in an odd corner, where he can watch surreptitiously for Dorothy's comings and goings.

Dorothy filters into the warriors’ tent at around the same time as everyone else.

And then, hours later, she emerges again, looking as exhausted as when she entered.

She scans the road, blinking sleep from her eyes.

Camillo peeks out from under his lashes at her, trying to make out what he can in the flickering torchlight.

(Where is she going? Has she slept at all?)

She scans the road as she goes, occasionally looks over her shoulder or up to the sky.

The first time she reaches a door, she ducks in.

Camillo gets up and follows her, at a cautious distance. The snow on the paths has been mostly trodden into mud by a day's worth of walkers, so it's cold but not unbearable on his bare feet, and he can pad along in near-silence.

When she goes into a building, he tiptoes around the side. None of the walls here are thick enough to do much to muffle whatever she's doing in there.

Mostly, he hears her walk-stop-walk-stop-walk, like she’s doing something all around the room. Occasionally, there’s objects quietly clunking against each other, like she’s rifling through a container.

She leaves frustrated, and continues on.