Sorry for the rather long wait between updates...I'm a bit lazy.
Winter sinks its dread teeth into Russia, pouring snow from the heavens and piling it up into great mountains of frost. Tank tracks grind and stall as they attempt to push through the great banks of white powder, and in the German armies' wakes lie the corpses of those who could march on no more, their mud-caked limbs and faces turned blue-black by the savage cold.
A detachment of the 2nd SS Panzer Divison Das Reich pushes through western Russia in rough column formation, armor leading the charge through fire, death, and ice, trailed by hundreds of men on foot.
Somewhere over the horizon, the object of this arduous campaign beckons, begging for destruction. The degenerate Bolshevist beast's rotting heart.
Moscow.
Johann Buhler slogs through a thick, freezing sludge, the product of half-melted snow merging with copious amounts of mud.
His boots are absolutely soaked, feet immersed in dirty, freezing water, limbs refusing to obey the brain's commands any longer.
Every now and again, he casts a longing look towards one of the bulky Panzers rumbling slowly through heavy snows.
The crews must be at least a bit warmer in there…
At least in comparison to Johann and his comrades outside, who have only the standard issue Waffen-SS boots and jackets, practically rotting off of their backs at this point, and the black stahlhelm emblazoned with twin lightning bolts, which grows so cold in this weather it all but freezes to the scalp.
But at least they are still alive.
An easy campaign was the expectation. The Judeo-Bolshevik ruled monstrosity that called itself the Soviet Union could not withstand the might of Hitler's war machine for long.
Humans have a tendency to set expectations a bit too high.
The Russians make them pay in gallons of blood for every inch of ground they've taken, fighting with an almost superhuman ferocity. The Führer may designate them subhuman, but one cannot help to admire their tenacity and warrior's spirit.
It doesn't matter, though.
This is Deutschland's destiny.
The Herrenvolk cannot languish forever within the constricting, artificial borders allotted to them by the allied victors of the Great War.
Germany will take the land it needs for the continued survival of its people, and if other peoples must suffer and die to secure their destiny, than so be it.
Johann thinks of his family back home, in a little Hessian farm town along a nameless creek.
They lost everything in the Great War, fields and home destroyed by artillery and looted by the advancing western armies. It will take years to rebuild.
His father died in 1916, courtesy of Russian shell, and his mother took her own life some eleven years after.
He is left behind alone to protect and provide for the three youngest children his parents left behind.
Maria, Henrik, Christine, he does this for them.
He will give them a future beyond tending cows, and fending off starvation each winter.
If he must march through this frozen hell for his family and his homeland, then fine. In the end, it will all be worth it.
Doesn't mean he has to like it, though.
A bank of snow covered trees looms up on the advancing division's left, and he instinctively pulls closer to one of the big tanks for protection, scanning the pines for any sort of movement.
Perfect for an ambush.
Johann licks his lips, a tight knot winding up in his stomach, fingers digging into the grip of his MP40.
"What do you want to do when we get home?" he asks the man marching ahead of him, desperate to take his mind from the war, if only for a moment.
The soldier turns, mouth open to deliver an answer, and then a round whistles through the air and his head explodes in a burst of brilliant red gore and bits of shattered helmet.
"Sniper!"
Johann hits the ground without thinking, cheek pressed to freezing mud, terrified eyes searching the tree line for a Russian sharpshooter.
Shit! Shit!
The slow moving German column roars to life, pines burn as a barrage of tank shells impact the ridge of trees, and the thick, pungent smell of scorched wood soon hangs heavy over the battlefield. Soldiers dive for cover, poking their steel-clad heads out from behind the rocks and armor that serve as impromptu fortifications to lay down suppressive fire in the sniper's general direction.
Men charge down from the ridge, shouting curses in Russian, and machinegun bullets pour out from behind tree trunks, ripping the extremities from German infantry in gruesome splashes of crimson.
Johann lays on his side, back to the tracks of a Panzer IV, rocks digging into his ribs, right side of his face still held tight against the ground, cheek quickly assuming a dull blue color as the cold takes its toll.
His jacket is soaked so thoroughly he might as well be sitting in a river, and he is pressed so hard to the freezing earth that it would be no surprise were he to sink right through.
Three feet above him, the SS and its partisan enemies trade hundreds of bullets across the thin strip of land separating the German column from the Russian assailants.
If he makes any move to rise, he'll be cut down, either by enemy fire or that of his fellow soldiers.
Above him, the tank's turret booms, a shell whistles through the air and consumes six Russians in a flash of orange flames.
The tank spits another blast of fire towards the partisans, the shell ripping away a rifleman's upper torso before it even explodes, and immolating two women manning a light machine gun in the ensuing detonation.
Bullets bounce back harmlessly from the panzer's thick steel, missing Johann only thanks to the graces of sheer luck.
Luck won't last for long.
Stuck between the hulking vehicle and enemy guns, he'll be dead within the next few minutes unless he moves.
But there is no opening, and the streams of bullets show no signs of running dry.
He unclips one grenade from his belt.
Then another.
Quickly priming both, he hurls the explosives with all the strength he can muster into his tired body.
Both roll to a stop before a bank of snow concealing three Russian fighters. They scramble backwards, desperate to escape the impending blast, abandoning their weapons, and for just a moment, the rattle of machinegun fire ebbs away.
Johann jumps to his feet and sprints off, desperate to get to the other side of the tank.
His boots dig into the mud, hampering his flight.
Just as he turns to round the panzer's glacis, he stumbles, hands flying out to cushion his fall.
Up on the ridge, a young boy with a Mosin-Nagant takes careful aim.
Johann struggles to his feet again, bracing himself against the panzer's steel flank.
Crack!
It's like someone's swung a lead pipe into his neck.
He crumples to the ground, blood pumping from his ruined throat with the perfect rhythm of a heartbeat.
Johann takes a few short ragged breaths, the field-gray of his tunic rapidly giving way to a deep crimson as the grievous wound empties itself onto the SS uniform.
He stares up towards the darkened skies , a reflection of grey Russian clouds dancing in his bright green eyes.
Snow falls again, and the few flakes that find their way onto his tongue taste impossibly sweet.
When he was younger he and Maria would rush out into the winter cold as soon as the first snowfall of winter greeted them, against their mother's worried admonitions, and collect snowflakes that way.
Will she be proud of him? What about Henrik and Christine?
Will Henrik want to be a soldier, just like his big brother?
The shouts of his comrades and foes alike begin to fade away, along with the roar of howitzer and gunfire.
Johann curls his arms and legs inwards, in a futile attempt to warm himself.
It's so fucking cold…
One more breath.
The hungry specter of war reaches out its ancient, crooked fingers for him.
Such is life in Soviet Russia.
The fat, bone-white winter moon sits high in the heavens, bathing the city in eerie, pallid light, and casting flickering shadows through the blinds and across Elsa's walls.
She whips the curtains open, azure eyes surveying the streets several stories below, bright with the glow of headlights and lampposts.
It's been four days since she arrived in Berlin, greeted by massive crowds, curiously chomping at the bit to get a look at Germany's newest ally.
Four hundred men of the SS were barely able to keep back the floods of humanity that filled Lehrter Bahnhof.
To Elsa, who grew quite accustomed to the rural tranquility of her little backwater kingdom over the years, Berlin was like an explosion of modernity.
The blonde is still not used to the absolute cacophony of Germany's nerve center.
Automobiles rush across the great city, traveling upon the newly built autobahns commissioned by the Führer himself, roads that would one day connect the Reich's farthest corners to Berlin, as in the Roman Empire of old.
Throngs of humanity, hundreds strong, fill the streets, heading to offices, restaurants, cinemas, or any number of destinations scattered throughout the sprawling metropolis.
It's all enough to make the queen a bit woozy.
The Nazis have set her up in the Hotel Adlon, an old 19th century structure overlooking the Pariser Platz, with a clear view of the Brandenburg gate.
It's all quite nice, she must admit.
Her bed is probably the largest she's ever slept on, despite growing up quite literally as a princess.
Last night, in a fit of curiosity, Elsa forged five sculpted, androgynous human figures from ice and snow, ordering them to lie across the mattress side by side.
She was quite impressed when her chain of clones barely stretched from one end of the bedspread to the next.
The room's radio was set to a News and Propaganda station upon her arrival, but Elsa decided Adolf Hitler's ranting was not particularly conductive to a good night's rest, and so immediately tuned it to a classical music station, where it remained.
A freshly polished, compact little bookshelf about three feet tall sits tucked away in the corner, stocked with about fifty or so various titles, including a couple of heavily biased history volumes she spent the better part of this week perusing, and of course; Mein Kampf.
The Hotel's SS presence, though already heavy thanks to the Adlon's high value clientele, has increased tenfold since the queen's stay began.
Two soldiers keep a perpetual vigil outside her doors, impressively managing hours of statuesque stillness per day, the only hint of movement being the twitch of their eyes tracking any suspicious passerby, and the curt nods they offer Elsa when she leaves her room for a breath of fresh air or a drink at the ground floor lounge.
Of course, not all of her guardian angels are quite so conspicuous. Last night she noticed with amusement a small luger strapped to the cleaning girl's thigh.
Hell, half the staff is probably SS and Gestapo.
Elsa collapses onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ghostly shape of the moon, half-hidden behind wispy clouds and the artificial horizon of Berlin's skyline.
She reaches for the radio, pale, slender fingers fiddling with the knobs, switching stations, forgoing Beethoven and Wagner for broadcasts of a more martial variety.
"-ave struck another decisive blow against Soviet forces, simply the latest in a long string of victories won by our valiant armies. The Bolsheviks retreat further into Russia, and it is expected German soldiers will occupy Moscow in just days."
She must roll her eyes at the announcer's hearty, confident tone, and at his announcement itself.
Were the eastern war going so swimmingly in reality, she wouldn't be here.
The radio chatter fades into a steady, lulling buzz, and her eyelids begin to slip shut.
For a moment, Elsa considers exchanging her dress for nightclothes, but before she can act on the thought, sleep grabs hold of her and consciousness slips away.
The next thing she registers is a voice whispering in her ear.
"Hey. Hey. Elsa. C'mon. Get up."
The blonde's eyes slide open to the sight of Anna leaning over her, strawberry blonde braids hanging down to tickle Elsa's face, lips pulled into a mischievous grin.
Except not really, because this is just a dream, and one that torments her all too often.
The princess takes a seat at the foot of the bed, and it hurts, because she's so close, but Elsa knows better than to touch her.
This phantom is a perfect impression of her sister. They always are. The bright, cheerful teal eyes set in her round, girlish face, a smattering of freckles across her adorable button nose and cheeks, those plump, strawberry red lips.
Why can't I give you a warm hug?
But every time Elsa tried to reach out for that hug, or to hold her hand, or even just to feel the warmth of her skin, Anna vanished like mist.
So she can only drink in her features, on certain occasions, talk, and curse the fact that this dream has to end.
"H-hi Anna."
Anna's head darts about, taking in her modern surroundings.
"This is a nice city, isn't it?"
"Yes…you know, you've been here before."
"Really?"
Elsa nods.
"Yes…we visited Rapunzel here once, don't you remember?"
The princess rises from the bed and presses her face against the window, absorbing the 20th century's sights and sounds.
"Well…it's definitely changed a lot!"
The queen smiles lovingly.
"It's been a hundred years."
Anna's head whips around, her sea-blue eyes lighting up.
"That long?"
Elsa brings a hand to her throat, choking back tears.
"Yes…I still miss you, you know? Every day."
The strawberry blonde frowns, drifting back to the bed, plopping herself down next to the older girl.
Anna's hand slides dangerously close to her sister's.
Still no touching, Elsa.
"Well…don't miss me. I'm here now!"
"But you're not here! Not…not really. And…and that's why I'm here."
Her younger sibling's mouth twitches into a grimace.
"Why are you helping them?"
She spits the word "them" out like something nasty, and Elsa recognizes her own conscience moralizing in the form of Anna.
"For…for yo-. For her."
This isn't Anna, not really.
Once she realizes this, her sister's mannerisms melt away, leaving simply the harsh, judgmental voice of Elsa's subconscious.
"So do you believe in Germany's cause?"
"Are they any worse than the Soviets they're fighting?"
"Is that the best you can say for them? That perhaps they are no worse than another nation? What happened to you? You used to have morals, standards! The girl who ran away to the North Mountain to avoid harming anyone in her kingdom, the girl who sacrificed everything, who spent her youth shut away for the sake of others' safety. Would she ally herself with a gang of power-hungry, murdering criminals, just for the sake of one per-"
"Shut up! You're right! My entire life has been one long bloody, barbaric sacrifice! I've never done a damn thing for me! Every moment has been dedicated to others! And you want to try to shame me because I want my sister back? Because for once, for once in a hundred and twenty years I want to be a little selfish? Go to hell!"
Elsa bolts up in bed, warm tears staining her pale, red tinged cheeks, heart beating like a war drum, entire body trembling.
The room is empty, her ragged breathing the only sound to break this heavy silence.
Alone again.
By the way, if you ever have any suggestions, anything to point out, etc. Please do.