Oh boy, did this take a lot of work. I know I'm shooting from the hip on quite a few topics in this story, and that is mainly because not much is told about Noisette and Hans in the game proper, aside from the background of their relationship. That being said: if there are historical inaccuracies in this story, do not hesitate to tell me. Also, I wanted to say that I did greatly enjoy writing this for my good friend, even if the subject matter isn't quite comfortable. I debated about keeping in what I put Noisette through in this story, but considering the fact that she had a liaison with a German soldier, it was possible that it could have happened. Hans's childhood in this was based on an episode of The World At War, in which a (at that point, much aged) woman recalled her childhood in similar circumstances.
4/18/16 Edit: Added the blackout shade to the apartment complex in order to be more historically accurate, and fixed Noisette's relationship with the French Resistance to be more accurate to game canon.
"Mademoiselle Tornade."
Noisette held her peace with dignity as she was led rather roughly by the arm to the bench, stumbling once before she was shoved into a sitting position. Much to the contrast of the crowd of people who were barely held back by the militia on duty, throwing jeers and vulgar screams at her, she sat straight, resolute, her face stone. She gazed off into the distance, her eyes locking onto nothing in particular.
A pity, really, she'd done her hair up so well today, only to have its curls ripped roughly apart, the combs thrust upon the ground to break. She broke her exterior once or twice to wince at the pain of her scalp being yanked on, clenching the wooden bench beneath her. Was it a razor or scissors that they would use? She hoped for a razor, as it would at least go faster.
The urge to bolt seized her as she felt the coldness of the blade of the scissors place close to the flesh of her lower neck, but she immediately swallowed it back. What did it matter, anyway, it was just hair; it would grow back. It could have all been far worse, really. She gazed back and forth slowly as the first strands of her dark hair fell to the ground, taking in the laughter, the pointing, and the gawking, her knuckles growing white as she squeezed the bench harder. A stray camera flashed, causing her to blink a few times in order to readjust her blurred vision. The first cut was rather light, but she didn't fare so lucky with those to follow, the blades tearing out larger tufts of hair to fling away as if it were garbage. Her head was jerked from side to side and back, the appointed barber seizing the back of her neck to hold her steady.
"Where's your Nazi now, whore?" The exclamation was followed by the pelting of a half-eaten bun upon her coat. Noisette brushed it off with a hand. Idiot, that act of violence just cost him his lunch. She knew she may as well get used to such mistreatment now, otherwise she would simply become crushed under it. Tufts of hair fell to her shoulders, and the barber brushed them off with little care for delicacy. But still, despite the necessity for stoicism, she felt ready to spring from the bench at that particular jeer, and confront the speaker. Hans von Schwesterkrank, though he was many things, certainly was no Nazi.
She nearly let out a sigh, though not at her situation. Where was he now, she wondered, if he was even alive. She thought she felt a gloved hand ghost over her shoulder, but she knew it was only another clump of her hair again. Though she did desire his company now, she knew it was far better that he stayed away. Setting aside the basic fate of Hans being murdered on the spot for being clad in a German uniform, he would certainly be torn to pieces by the mob for attempting to intervene.
XXXXXX
"If there is anything you may need, I can easily procure it for you," Hans had once told her, his accent cutting harshly into his attempt at French.
Dropping her decorative scarf upon a side table, she shook her head. "I appreciate it, but no, thank you."
He grasped her wrist, and she started back with a cry, casting a glance about the apartment complex hallway for the nearest object to strike him with. The flowered vase upon the side table, yes, that would work. His grip, however, slackened, and she turned back in surprise to see the genuine concern on Hans's face as he stared down at her wrist, having pushed her sleeve back for a better look. The bones upon her wrist stuck out prominently, her skin quite pale. He looked from her wrist up at her. "Noisette, please, let me help you. If you are in need of food, I can bring you something."
Swallowing back her embarrassment at her previous plan of self-defense, she shook her head. "That's very kind of you, Hans, but I can't accept your offer. I can't be well-fed while others starve."
He hesitated before letting go. Noisette rubbed her wrist subconsciously, and Hans frowned at the movement. "A good sense of ethics to have, but that does not fill your stomach."
She dropped her hand. "You would be surprised at how that can get me through the day. I can ignore the pain."
Much to her surprise, he assented. "Yes, you can." Turning away from her, he moved to the window, and lifted the blackout shade. He propped his hands upon the sill of the window to look out over the street below, the pedestrian traffic thick and unrelenting in its flow. The red of Nazi Germany shone out over the crashing wave of people, as if the banners were life preservers in the tossing sea.
"Hans," she called softly, reaching out to him. She stopped, her fingers half-curled in the air.
"Yes?" He asked without looking at her, his eyes following the motion of the fig tree beneath them, its leaves lush green in the summer sunlight as it waved back and forth in the wind.
"You are speaking from experience, are you not?" He turned back to look over his shoulder, and upon seeing her hand, pushed himself off of the sill to tentatively interlock the tips of his fingers with hers. Noisette allowed him to guide her slowly over to stand beside him at the windowsill. She drew her fingers out, and his hand fell. Turning his head back toward the sunlight, he replied, "My family and I, we are good people, you would say, but our luck is not so good. I told you once I was a city boy," he smiled wryly, "and I suppose I still am."
"Yes, of course," she replied, though taking care not to mention that he was more akin to a bird in its cage than a bird in its tree, with how he much preferred his outdoor assignments to those that stationed him within buildings, and the general roaming of his eyes despite his stiff posture.
Crossing his leg behind the other, he leaned slightly forward in defiance of such posing. "What I can tell you of my childhood is that it was cramped. My family lived in an apartment smaller than this one, bunched close together with our neighbors. Food was scarce, while filth was not. Our fathers would wander the streets, searching for work, while our mothers worried among each other. We children hung about in hallways, or simply played in the mud and dirt in the courtyard below." He shook his head, his eyes closed. "We'd play to forget the hunger we felt in our stomachs, our clothing and skin caked in dust and grime. The courtyard was open air, but the sky only formed the top of our cage. We were always tired, but to sleep, it was so hard, between the creaking of the apartment building itself, and the voices from behind the walls." He winced. "Not all voices were nice to hear."
She lowered her eyes at that to see his fist clenching on the sill. "There was the hunger, but I had to be strong, I had to ignore it. I needed my sleep," his fist unclenched, and his hand dropped flat. "So yes, I speak from experience."
Noisette smiled sadly, raising her eyes. "I do, too." With a shiver despite the summer weather, she told him of the cold nights, sleeping back to back with her older sister while her mother kept vigil for her father, who returned from backbreaking labor to place crumbs upon the table. As Hans's face slowly fell in reaction to picturing her, wrapped shivering in a blanket in the cold, she decided not to think long of him as a weak, emaciated child, leaning tiredly back against one of the apartment building walls.
He folded his arms. "Winter will come again, Noisette," he replied firmly, "Do you want to take that chance of whether or not you will be fed from day to day?"
She stepped backward into the shadow of the room, and he loosened his arms somewhat. "Your fellow men matter more than me," she replied firmly, "As my countrymen matter more than you. I cannot accept favors from you when I know such a thing, and you cannot offer."
"Yet I do," he responded evenly, "Why should I not consider you among my countrymen now? You are all our responsibility, are you not?" Noisette's eyes narrowed at that, and Hans, anticipating her counterattack, effectively parried. "Before you pounce upon me, it is your land upon which we squat. The very least we can do is take care of all of you."
"And the very most is to pluck the jewel of France from your crown of steel," she responded, the tone of her voice matching the ultimate word.
"I cannot do that," he replied simply.
"Obviously," she answered with the wave of a hand.
"We cannot do that," he replied in a firmer tone.
"And why is that?"
"It's complicated, to put it simply," Hans answered, "In war, everything is." His boots clacked over the floor as he took a few steps toward her. Noisette held her ground. "Once upon a time, there was a young farmer with a beautiful wife. She was very sick, and he could not afford the medicine to cure her. Yet from on high," he extended his hand in the air for emphasis, "comes a savior. He can afford the medicine to cure her, and all is well. They have many children, and are happy. Then the savior asks in return his military service, and being a fair man, the farmer goes." She frowned, having a feeling where this narrative was going. Hans sighed. "But the military is not a safe profession to enter. He is shot," he placed his hand to the right side of his chest, "and does not survive. His wife is left with their many fatherless children." He dropped his hand. "I carried that man to safety, only to hear his last gasps of breath as he died."
Her frown deepened. "You expect sympathy from me, Hans? Do you know how many of my countrymen were ripped from their families, from their very lives, as a result of your savior?"
"No," he replied firmly, his hand hitting the banister to slide along it, "I do not." Circling about the exit staircase, he called over his shoulder, "Good day, Noisette."
XXXXXX
She winced as the scissors cut sharply into her cheek, drawing blood. Jeers sounded at her pain, but she kept her face straight. Tears as a result of the pain pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to allow them any further, blinking them back. She attempted to fidget, to gain a bit of room, but she was held fast with a firm warning.
"Look, she's crying! Oh, poor dear, poor, poor, thing!" A woman shrieked mockingly, clapping her hands hysterically at her. The woman's wedding ring flashed with her clapping hands, and the tears above her gaping mouth, wide open in that hyena-like laugh, rolled down her bright red cheeks.
XXXXXX
Harsh coughs racked Noisette's body, her throat sore. Reaching out, she grasped onto the trunk of a tree for support with one hand, her other hand balled into a fist beneath her open mouth.
Hans was right, too much so, in that summer had ended sooner than she thought it would. 1943 had not treated her very well, her body becoming frailer as time went by. Her sister needed food as well, her husband providing physical labor for the Germans against his will.
Rocking her nephew to sleep in a warm bundle, she found it hard to hold back tears at sort of trouble she could put her loved one in, were she found out. When Settarra inquired as to why Noisette was crying, she felt ashamed. What right had she to cry, when her sister had to hold her keep a stiff upper lip in the face of it all? "My arm," she had murmured, holding out young Tearlach to his mother, the baby of only one year oblivious to the world as he sucked his thumb serenely, "I bruised my arm at work." She rubbed the "affected" area, covered by her sleeve, for emphasis.
The light pouring into her sister's kitchen had been warm that day, streaking the table and floor with gold. Blowing softly on the weak tea in her cup, Settarra murmured, "Sooner than I think, I will teach Tearlach his letters."
Noisette smiled as she stirred her own cup. "Oh, that is wonderful. You must look so forward to it."
A smile, so alien these days, graced her thin lips between the long strands of hair that framed her narrow face. Lowering her cup to the saucer, she replied, "There will be little he will learn that is worth any value, the older he gets."
The younger of the two played the fool. "I'm sorry?"
"If I could keep him in his crib forever, I would, rather than have him swallow the lies that will be forced down his throat," she replied simply, "The children now, I pity them, they learn no truth, only what our jailers deem as truth. It is well-meaning enough, I suppose, to show no fear in the face of the enemy by continuing to go to school. I envy them their courage." She chuckled at her contradiction, patting her napkin against her lips, "I envy them, and I pity them. They so valiantly wish to continue on with their lives despite the occupation, but their schoolmasters teach them now that their fathers were wrong for fighting against the Nazis, and that our heritage is nothing but decadence and lies." Her voice rose, her back becoming rigid against her chair. Bringing the sides of her hands down against the surface of the table, she declared, "Utter nonsense."
Her sister's husband, Noisette recalled as she more heavily leaned her weight against the tree trunk, had been a teacher of grammar. Narrowing her eyes, she pushed herself off it to toddle slightly on her legs. The helmeted men in the distance saw her odd little dance, she knew as much, and she figured they would probably make jokes among themselves over the weird woman in the park. She could care less; after being confined to bed for three days straight with a bucket as her companion, she needed to walk, to breathe in fresh air. Pity that it was January, so the air shot down her throat like a knife, forcing her to hug her sides.
She'd managed to crawl over to the door during the second day, and send a message with a local adolescent boy, just a few years shy of manhood, to take the Underground, stating that her reason for absence in her line of duty. Noisette tipped him, and gave him the stern order to be careful. The kid merely laughed. "Mademoiselle Tornade, I think you are of the only six people who care about me." As she recalled, the boy had been without parents, and had been raised by a stern, detached grandfather. Wearing a musty old jacket, and rubbing the back of his neck at his humble circumstances, the boy offered his life in service to France.
Sucking a breath between her teeth, she pushed herself off the trunk with an audible grunt as Hans's conversation with her above the fig tree played back through her memories. Shoved through the machine of the "reformed" French education system, Tearlach would be groomed in fine clothes for service to Hans's savior, while the boy Noisette had hired would be shot and buried in an unmarked grave.
XXXXXX
"Tilt your head back, madam," ordered the barber.
She quietly complied, closing her eyes against the camera flashes, more hair falling to the ground behind the bench.
XXXXXX
"You scare me sometimes, you know that?" Hans's fingers twisted in the chain link fence.
Noisette, her back toward him from where she sat upon the bench beneath the pedestrian stairwell, replied in a matter-of-fact tone, "Oh, you have just noticed?" The wind from a passing train stirred her skirt heavily, her legs clasped together under it, and her gloved hands twisting as she held it down. She took a soft breath of the changing air, the warmth rising steadily over the past few weeks. It was helped along by the rumbling train yard, the smells of rubber and gas meeting her nose in an unsavory fashion. March was slow in its passing this year, as everything seemed to be. Oh, who cared, the trains went nowhere, anyway.
"If you are trying to get a rise out of me tonight, Noisette, I am not in the mood," he replied in a tone that was too harsh to be simple annoyance.
She turned back to look over her shoulder at him, and was met by a glare. Her hands dropped flat to her lap at that, though she did not draw back. "I am not, I am stating fact," she replied evenly, "You cannot be angry with me about that."
Hans let go of the fence. "No, I am not fool enough to place my hand into the mouth of the crocodile, and hope it does not bite. I know what you are, but I suppose that doesn't faze you at this point, for it doesn't faze me."
"You do know what will happen, should we be caught conspiring together," she replied, her tone rising.
"'Caught conspiring?'" Leaning back against the fence, he laughed. "There would be no need for us to be caught. A slip of the tongue, or an accusation, false or otherwise, could easily end with me in a court martial."
"Then why bother?" She asked coquettishly, shrugging her shoulders.
He hesitated, turning his head to the side, his lips parting as if he was about to say something, but closing just as soon. With a shrug, he inquired, "You see the humor of this, do you not?"
"It is more long the line of sad humor," she replied, leaning over the back of the bench, her dark hair falling down, "Though if you want me to tell you what I think, I can try."
"By all means," he replied with a wave of his arm.
"You were a hero back home in your uniform, fighting for the will of your savior. What he said was right had to be right," her eyes narrowed in concentration on her thoughts, her brows dropping, "But then, when you were stationed here during the occupation, you gained a differing view on things. What hero allowed others to be falsely imprisoned, and for their freedoms to be stripped from them? So, being the hero you were, you desired to make things right, yet," she held up a finger, "it pits you against those with whom you serve." Dropping her finger, she declared, "You are then not a hero, but a traitor. So my question to you, Hans von Schwesterkrank, pertains as to you what see yourself to be. Are you a hero, are you a traitor, or are you simply a man who wishes to do the right thing?"
Tilting his head to the side, he gave her a grin. "Well, well, I am impressed, but I fear that a few of your details are off."
She shrugged. "We do not know each other that well."
"No," he replied, pushing himself off of the fence at last, "We do not. I suppose, then, that makes me a fool who playacts the knight for you."
"I never called you a fool," Noisette responded sharply, "And I would not think of doing so. You see what is going on with open eyes while others willingly look the other way."
Hans frowned at that. "You could accuse me of doing the same, and you would be correct. If I were not a coward, I would have actively participated against the occupation, but I have not."
"No," she twisted sideways at that, her legs now hanging off over the side of the bench, "That does not make you a coward. That just means you have a conscience. What would happen to your comrades if you helped to free France?" With a pause, she added, "And what would happen to me?"
He grinned that boyish grin of his again, and Noisette smiled at those plump lips of his. Certainly quite a few girls must have desired to steal a few kisses from them. "I'm surprised you didn't mention me among those priorities."
She laughed at that. "Because you are the knight. You care not for yourself, only for others."
Hans shook his head at her with a chuckle. "You would think that because I disguise my motivations so well." Bringing his hands together, he began, "Now, let us see, we have the knight, and his dented shield. We have the martyred princess," he gestured at her with the side of his hand.
Noisette's wince was backlit by the white lights of the passing train. Hans's smile was now wooden, his teeth appearing like chips of glass, as if they would break at any moment. She had most definitely hurt him by refusing his help, but as to what extent, she hadn't known.
Dropping his hand, he declared, "Now only a villain is needed. It should be easy to find one."
"Hans," she held up a hand, "enough."
He sighed, his shoulders dropping. "To be nothing more than a man again, I would give anything for it. I don't think I can, however, not now."
"That isn't true," she responded firmly.
"If only I could be so sure," he mused, "You fight against this parasite to your very livelihood, but I on the other hand, see that parasite as life itself."
"But you are among so many others," she insisted, "You cannot all share in the same damnation, it would simply be too unfair."
He swallowed at that, and his voice cracked as he replied, "Oh Noisette, you know numbers don't conceal anyone from suffering."
He seized the back of the bench at that with one hand, and Noisette stood, pivoting on her heel to see him his head down as his body let out a shudder. She shook her head, blinking away the stinging feeling at the corners of her eyes. "Come, we should move."
XXXXXX
Curled up in the thin white fabric of her nightgown, her knees drawn to her, Noisette rested her back against the headboard behind her. The moulin whirled away in the night quietly above her. "You are not the only traitor, you know that," she murmured, tilting her head sideways.
Hans dropped his arm from the process of rolling up the sleeve of his shirt. "More than I would wish to admit. If you desire for me to leave, I can."
She scooted to the side, and patted the spot beside her. "I would not dare throw you out now." With a smile, she lifted her hand to him.
Taking it, he crawled onto the sheet beside her. Noisette smiled contentedly, leaning her head in the crook of his neck. Hans placed his cheek against the side of her head, wrapping his arm protectively around her. His breath stirred her hair softly. For a few moments, she could pretend the war did not exist, that it was Hans the man who held her, not Hans the hero, Hans the soldier, or even Hans the German.
"It's funny," he murmured, "In the time I have known you, I don't remember coming here until tonight. I must commend you on that; I thought you lived in that apartment building. Excellent decoy."
Noisette touched his hand. "There is a way for you to slip out in the morning."
Drawing his head way, he reached up to stroke along her jawline with his thumb. "Well, well, my dear, I should not be surprised at this point, should I?"
She took a shuddering breath. "Are you sure you are safe here?"
He dropped his thumb. "To be utterly honest, no. I do fear the notion of waking up with a pistol in my neck."
She lowered her eyes at that. "Truth be told, I fear the same. Would you regret trusting me, if that were to happen?"
He tilted her chin up. "I do not regret it now because you lack the intention to do so."
She swallowed as the strap to her nightgown slid down to her shoulder. Hans reached out to pick it up, and push it back to its place. "But then," she began, "Do you intend to do such a thing to me?"
"I could tell you no," he replied, relaxing his grip on her side, "but I know that until tomorrow morning, you have no proof of it."
"I don't intend on sleeping much tonight," she answered softly.
Kissing her forehead affectionately, he answered, "We could talk all night if you please."
She grasped the sides of his head to pull him in for a kiss. Drawing out, she pressed her forehead against his. He stroked her cheek, and she opened her eyes. "I don't understand," he began in a lost tone of voice, "Why me? Why spend your time with me when I could not be converted? My loyalty to my country is too deep, you know that."
"Do you remember the day we met?" She asked.
He nodded his head soberly. A downpour had caused the two to shelter beneath a bridge covering. Noisette had leaned back against the wall in disinterest, while Hans had taken out a book to read. In a wistful tone, she explained, "That first meeting accomplished little between us, for we did not speak, but it was strange, in its way. You were merely entertaining yourself to wait out the rain."
She reached up to run her hand through his hair. "You weren't a face in the crowd to me after that. I knew that there were others, soldiers who acted like ordinary men, much more than I would probably like to admit, but," she smiled, "they weren't you."
Her face fell. "Despite that, however, my loyalty remains firmly to those with whom I work."
"The Underground," Hans murmured quietly.
She nodded. Knowing full well he could see the bone in her shoulder, she covered it with her hand. "I kept you at arm's length," she let go to place the palms of her hands to her knee, and lay the side of her head against them, "and then I became ill. I suppose I'm not much use to anyone, if I cannot cull my own emotions."
"Then don't think of yourself that way," he replied gently, brushing away a lock of her hair that had fallen before her eyes, "It matters not to me how useful you are."
"Because I have that freedom," she responded sadly, "You do not."
Hans hesitated before agreeing, "No, I do not."
The stinging feeling in her eyes built up, and she turned away. "If I had my way, I would release you from that, but I know that would do you a disservice." She coughed at the end of her statement despite herself, tearing up.
"Noisette."
She shook her head, wiping at her eyes as her tears ran. "My emotions have ruined enough."
His hand found her shoulder as he replied sympathetically, "Then I have ruined much, as well."
She looked up at that, and Hans continued, "I should have let go of you, as well, for more reasons than I could count, but I simply could not." He smiled. "That spark you have in you that allows you to stand defiant against all others, it's something I would be foolish to allow to flee my sight. I followed that spark to find that there were so many others like you, refusing to bow down beneath the yoke upon them. I am a traitor in mind, though not necessarily in body."
"Then what is this?"
"This," he picked up her hand to kiss, "Is all that I am willing to do to you right now. We have to accept that I won't be in France forever, and I wouldn't want to complicate matters further, much less chance burdening you with my child."
In her mind's eye, Noisette saw a pistol in his gloved hand lowered to place upon a table, useless to him. "Wait," she whispered sharply, and he let go to allow her to slide off the bed.
"What is it?" He inquired, his eyes darting about the room intently, his hands braced upon the surface of the bed behind him.
She clasped her hands together before her stomach. "There is a way we can help France, but it will be terribly risky." Noisette swallowed. "I would fault you not if you told me 'no.'"
"If we fail?" He asked softly.
She shook her head. "No, if I fail. You haven't yet agreed to anything." He gave her a sideways look at that, but said nothing. "If fail," she began slowly, "I will be hung."
"What is it?" He questioned again, his voice taking on a slight hiss.
Clasping her hands before her stomach, she explained, "The stained glass windows in the churches and cathedrals of Paris, I fear the Nazis will take them away. It's awfully silly, sacrificing my life for them, but we have already had so many wonderful things taken from us, and I do not wish to see these go, as well."
"Where will you hide them?" He inquired.
"Within this very moulin," she answered, "If you want to report me, then fine, I wouldn't care."
"You said you would hang for such a deed," he replied carefully, "It's a bit early in your life to contemplate such a heavy thing."
"You are one to talk," she replied evenly.
Hans smiled, and slid off his side. "Then we will hang together, my dear. When do we start?"
XXXXXX
Noisette made no conflict as her head was pushed back down from its upright position by the barber. She sighed, allowing herself to fall into the trivial concern as to the hairstyles she would no longer be able to wear in public any longer.
The public would not be able to see its stained glass art, not that it was revenge for her hair itself. No, she decided, blinking as she glanced down at the dark strands that now lay between her folded hands, the hair was purely trivial. Showing off the stained glass now would do nothing more than brand her a thief, as the hatred for her was too fierce. But honestly, she wondered, her eyes roving back and forth over the jeering gathering, did they deserve their artwork to be returned? A lump formed in her throat at the prospect of judging whether or not they could receive it was along the same lines of fascist thinking she fought against, deciding the better of the people as she saw fit.
The better of the people? No, it was for the better of her, and she knew it.
XXXXXX
"Quickly," Hans whispered in an urgent tone, "We haven't much time."
Noisette nodded her head from where she crouched low to the cathedral floor, the frame of stained glass clutched in her hands. She couldn't completely swallow her disappointment, however. They had managed to remove a few windows, yes, but there were so many in the cathedral that it would hardly matter. With security to the cathedral being amplified as a result of their activity this night, it would be nigh impossible to retrieve any more. It was a shame, really, that she could not grasp the stained glass image of the angels. It was her favorite, but its prominence was the reason it could not be grabbed. The side and exterior windows, splendorous in their own right, but not the stars of the show, could be taken, and they would have to matter.
Hans clipped the tool he had used to dislodge the window at his belt, and waved for her to stay back. He crept toward the staircase leading down to the altar, the pews silently standing before it. Crouching down behind the top banister pole, he turned back to her, addressing her sternly. "I will signal for you a safe route. If anything should happen to me, move quickly to escape. Nothing can be done if you are captured or killed." She frowned in acquiescence, knowing that he was appealing to rationality for his argument. Drawing his pistol, he rose up, keeping his hip close to the banister as he made his way slowly down, slipping out of her sight.
Noisette rose quietly up, keeping in the shadows near the moonlight cast by the empty frame. She patted her overcoat pocket where the kitchen knife lay, wrapped in a handkerchief. It was more a last resort than much else, as it would be utterly useless in a fight against an experienced military man. She swallowed as she watched Hans slink quietly past the pews, and around a nearby column to vanish out of sight.
The wind from outside the empty frame chilled her, causing her to put her arms around herself. She thought she could hear a few traces of German in the distance, but she couldn't be sure. The cathedral's silence, by contrast, rose to encase her, and she felt compelled to gasp open her mouth as if to avoid drowning in the vast darkness. If they were caught now, the ability to escape would be extremely thin. What a fool she had been, to purposely dive into this abyss. Hans had been a fool with her, grasping her hand tight as they jumped, laughing, into the darkness.
The passing of time caused her to curl further and further into herself, her hands clenched into fists. Maybe she wasn't up to this, or maybe she was, and didn't realize it, but that was moot, as of now. All that really mattered was that the job was completed. Her breath caught at the idea of Hans firing his pistol against his former allies, his teeth gritted with his back pressed against the wall. Could he bring himself to do it, to betray them and bequeath his loyalty for her and some stained glass? She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Oh, what had they gotten themselves into?
Movement drew her attention immediately, she crawled toward the staircase for a better look. Hans slunk quietly back around the column, and beckoned her down to him. She nodded her head and crept back to the glass, her concerns forgotten for the moment.
XXXXXX
Noisette stared up the glorious treasure trove above her, her reflection returned to her a thousand fold in its gay colors. Turning slowly about, her head tilted upward, she saw the tears sparkling in her corners of their eyes. She closed her eyes, stopping her turn as Hans's footsteps sounded over to her. When he placed his arms protectively about her waist, and his chin on her shoulder, she gasped out a sob, allowing them to run down her cheeks. "Tell them I did you harm," he implored, "You were the innocent, I did the harm."
Hans's letter had arrived, calling him away from her, and back to the front lines. He had to go. He had his debts to pay, and a promise to keep. She stiffened against him with a sharp intake of breath. "Excuse me?"
Hans's breath caught in a sob of his own, and he laid the side of his cheek against her neck. She reached down to grasp his free hand, which he squeezed tightly. "Should our liaison be found out, I want you to suffer no punishment for it. Tell them I molested you, I coerced you, I don't care what has to be said, just do it!"
"No!" She gasped. He dropped her hand, and released her waist to allow her to push off of him, and turn on her heel to look at him. Hans immediately looked away in shame, but not before she caught the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. Grasping his hands in hers to place to the bare skin above her breast. "Please, Hans, look at me!" She cried imploringly. He hesitated. "Please," she whispered, shaking his hands once.
He slowly looked up at her. "I would never think of doing that to you," she declared firmly.
Reaching out to stroke her hair, he explained, "I only wanted to protect you. Who is to know what will become of me after I am gone, but you still have a life ahead of you."
Noisette rubbed at the side of her face with the palm of her hand. "That doesn't sound like you."
He turned his head to wipe at his eyes. "Even I can admit when I face fear."
"That makes you human, Hans."
He smiled as he glanced about him. "It's beautiful, all of it."
She nodded, turning for a fuller view of the melancholy saints, the tired Madonna and her child, the religious symbols of birds and chalices, and the fatherly-looking figure of the Messiah as he patiently taught his followers parables. "One day they will shine in the sun again."
"One day," Hans chuckled, and she glanced back to look at him, and, found surprisingly to her, the dusting of a blush on his cheeks, "One day the war will end. One day the world will right itself again. One day," he squeezed her hand, "It's what we comfort ourselves with."
She sighed. "That is true."
"But then again, that is nothing new. We work for our 'one day,' myself in the army, you in your resistance, and our countries in the struggle for survival." Turning to more fully look at her, he took her bare hand in both of his. "I will return one day, Noisette Tornade, and make you my wife."
XXXXXX
Noisette's finishing touch was met with a hard shove up and off the bench that sent her stumbling, with a yell of, "Next!"
Before she could catch her bearings, her arm was grasped by the guard again to lead her off. The crowd pointed and jeered at her hopping stride, likening her to a stork as she was pelted here and there with more rotten pieces of food.
She felt ready to laugh at them. It was just hair, it would grow back. Yet, she felt her sense of triumph wane. Not even Settarra would look at her now, her sister copiously absent from her shaving. She didn't blame her; while the elder's husband was gone, the younger stole kisses from the enemy. She had her moulin, and the treasure trove that dwelled secretly within. Hans had once stood with her before the gallows, and she intended to keep her betrothal to him by waiting on his return.
She hopefully cast her gaze toward the sky, only to see that it was blocked by thick, gray clouds above the close city buildings.